


Cruellest Conquests

by grimwoode



Series: Of Privateers and Pirates [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Action & Romance, Alternate Universe - Human, Blood and Gore, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Mild Smut, Past Rape/Non-con, Slow Burn, They're gonna bone eventually, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2018-10-28 14:16:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 24
Words: 58,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10832982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimwoode/pseuds/grimwoode
Summary: When Arthur’s family ventures to the New World, it feels like the end. He’s not quite coming to terms with what’s happening in his life and he is just coasting through, intent on surviving so he could go back home to England as soon as possible.These plans change when Arthur encounters another boy who, by all intents and purposes, should be considered an enemy. But Arthur just can’t bring himself to properly hate him





	1. Draw a Circle, That's the Earth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we meet Arthur’s less appreciated siblings! Of course, our oldest is Alistair (Scotland). Then we have the twins, Erin (North Ireland) and Ina (South Ireland). Next you have Arthur (England, duh) and finally, you have Braith (Wales). The age has no historical or geographical relevance—just playing around with personalities ^-^

The ship felt like she was dancing on water, swaying and pushing and pulling, forging a path through the unforgivable waters. And eight year old Arthur hated every minute of it. He never dared go near the banisters to look down on the ocean because he feared it might reach up and pull him into its cold embrace, filling his mouth and lungs with saltwater, never to breathe or feel warmth again. It fascinated him how immovable and powerful the ocean seemed to be and yet this wooden ship could pierce through its waves as though they were barely there. The ship’s dancing made his stomach turn, just as much as the waters turned in her wake.

Every day, Arthur wondered why his father ever agreed to be stationed in the New World. There was a promise of wealth and success for any man that ventured there, especially young soldiers looking for glory such as his father. His mother was too docile-hearted to protest and the only one of his siblings that remotely dared to say anything was Alistair, and he paid dearly for it. Arthur couldn’t help pitying his brother for the abuse he suffered, but knew it was his own fault. He helped bandage his brother’s wounds, and none of them ever spoke against their father on the subject again.

Even now as Arthur was bent over a pail to vomit what little food he ate, he wouldn’t dare complain. He bore his suffering with a certain bit of pride, knowing it was better to be ill like this than to stupidly die at sea.

Today’s weather was much more mild and Arthur was able to venture up to the deck without feeling too unwell. He stood near the masts and he looked out at the vast ocean, mesmerized by its expanse and limitless wonders.

If only it didn’t make him seasick.

He couldn’t wait for this trip to be over, if only so he would stop feeling so ill so he wouldn’t die of something ridiculous like malnutrition or that thing that made pirates’ teeth fall out.

“You’re being such a pussy,” called Erin, one of the redheaded twins, from the banisters. “Come o’er here.”

“We promise we won’t push you over the edge,” cackled the other twin, Ina.

“I’m fine here, thanks,” grumbled Arthur, remaining firmly standing near the masts. He was aware that the sailors were discreetly chuckling at him—his seasickness was no secret to anyone on board by now.

“Leav’im alone, you witches,” called Braith, plopping himself down next to Arthur by the main mast. “Arthur, can you tell me a story about the New World?”

“I don’t really know of any,” murmured Arthur, sounding almost apologetic. “You should ask Ally. He’s the one that knows all the old stories.”

“I did, and he won’t tell me any,” pouted Braith.

“Well then, what makes you think I will?” mumbled Arthur.

Braith crossed his arms over his chest and gave him an angry pout. “I hate you,” he spat under his breath, walking away to pester the twins for stories instead.

Arthur sighed, rolling his eyes. He really couldn’t tolerate any of his siblings on better days. Unfortunately, he still had a responsibility to take care of them when needed. Still, Braith brought up an interesting point; it really would be a good idea to learn more about this land they were moving to.

He walked back down below deck, looking for someone that wasn’t too busy to give him any information on this new world, hoping to hear fascinating tales of fairies and princesses like the ones he grew to love back home in England.

One of the sailors laughed heartily at his boyish sense of adventure, causing Arthur’s ears to burn in embarrassment. “You’re about as likely to find a bloody fucking leprechaun in Ireland,” laughed the brutish man. “But I will tell ya this. I heard rumours of barbaric creatures in those lands, something between a man and a wolf. Once every full moon, they howl into the night before they go hunting for their prey.”

Arthur stood transfixed in a mixture of horror and fascination. The old sailor was all too happy to finally have a captive audience for the outlandish tales he heard on the frontier.

“You might be careful, little boy. A little blond thing like you is exactly what these wolfmen like,” he warned.

“Are they as big as a wolf or a man?” asked Arthur in open curiosity.

“I heard they grow as big as 8 feet tall when they stand on their hind legs,” retold the man. “Bloody hairy, ugly bastards, too. They say they were once men but because they spat on the name of Christ, God turned them into the beasts they truly are in here,” he said, shoving a blunt finger into Arthur’s small chest hard enough to leave a bruise. “So you better be a good little Christian and honour our God and your family.”

Arthur nodded vigorously, a little frightened by the old man and rubbing at his now sore chest.

All that night, the sailor’s words ran through Arthur’s mind, keeping him awake in wild fantasies of men turning into wild beasts, wondering what sort of thrill might come from hunting them or being hunted. He wondered if changing into a beast hurt.  He wondered if he would ever meet one and if he would be lucky and brave enough to survive the encounter.

That night was the first night Arthur spent on that boat without feeling sick in his stomach. Now able to hold his meals in, meat came back onto his bones and the frailness in his frame went away. He still wouldn’t venture on the top deck of the boat—only venture far enough to the edges to see out at sea and be comforted by the predictable motions on the waters.

A few weeks passed, and a storm hit. Waves crashed along the sides of the vessel, splashing in through the windows and leaking in through the floorboards of the deck. The boat thrashed violently, causing many people to take shelter into its belly, shivering with sickness and weariness. They all feared for their lives.

For once, Arthur didn’t. Since he heard the sailors’ stories and became determined to meet a wolfman himself, nothing could deter him. He spotted his father coming near, his uniform’s jacket left behind somewhere and leaving him in his undershirt and overalls.

“I need to speak with you Arthur,” he said with gravity. “I’ve spoken with Alistair, already, but you must know as well.”

“What is it, father?” said Arthur, coming out of his trance and fixing his wide green eyes on his father. He noticed how his thick brows furrowed over his eyes--they were dark and sunken from sleeplessness, and Arthur wondered what troubled him so much.

“When the storm passes, we will be reaching the New World,” he told him, sitting by Arthur’s side. “We will be living in a town called Boston, the largest one nearest the French border. It will be very dangerous,” he gravely reminded.

“I know, father,” murmured Arthur, remembering all too well why they were moving across the Atlantic in the first place.

“If ever something happens to me while on an expedition to the northern territories, it will be up to you and your brother to take care of our family,” reminded Captain Kirkland. “It’s important that you know how to do this.”

Arthur frowned at his words. He had never really thought that far ahead when it came to his father’s military career. Slowly, he nodded his understanding. Captain Kirkland nodded in kind, giving his son a gentle pat on his shoulder before leaving him be relieve some of the boat’s crew in navigating the ship, giving a man or two a break from the gruesome storm.

And just like that, once again, Arthur’s nights were sleepless. Only this time, it wasn’t his violent sickness or monsters in the night that kept him up, but the responsibilities his father had just bestowed upon him.

It was finally beginning to dawn on him what sort of dangers awaited, and the stormy seas were only the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The New World by far wasn’t the beginning of werewolf mythology (it started In Europe, way back in the early medieval period), but in New France, the catholics believed that if you didn’t go to Church for 7 years in a row, you would be cursed and become a werewolf.


	2. Home Sweet Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your comments, guys! They mean so much to me and they make me happy~
> 
> Francis is the oldest of four children in the Bonnefoy household. Mathieu (Canada) is the second oldest, followed by Monique (Monaco) and then Sophie (Seychelles).

Spring was in the air and it was Francis’ favourite time of the year. The flowers are blooming, the sun is brighter, the air is warmer, and the animals come out to play.

But most importantly, Papa finally comes back home from the hunt.

Maman prepared a special treat for him: herbed bread, aged cheese, and some dry-cured meats leftover from the winter. She sent Sophie and Monique out to milk the cows so Papa could have some fresh cream when he comes back and Mathieu was out in the woods searching for more herbs to replenish her stock and to gather some sweet sap from the trees to sweeten the bread and milk.

She entrusted Francis with the most important job of hunting for their night’s meal. She told him not to bother coming home until he caught a wild pig or turkey, but Francis himself hoped to catch a bear—something to brag about to his father coming home. Unfortunately, all he could gather were a few skinny rabbits and the promised turkey.

“Go pluck that bird and let your brother worry about the rabbits,” said his mother when she saw him returning. Dutiful as ever, Francis replied with a ‘oui, maman,’ and hung the rabbits for Mathieu to skin later before sitting in the shed to pluck and prepare the turkey for roasting that night.

He was vaguely aware of his sisters walking past with a few pails of milk between them and disappeared into the house to help Maman in the kitchen. Around midday, Mathieu also walked past him with a bucket of sap to boil and a basket of fresh herbs. Moments later, he was sitting next to Francis to tend to the rabbits, and they worked silently. The two boys never needed words to communicate. They both knew they looked forward to their father’s return and to hear the stories he would bring with him.

He once told them a story of how he was almost gutted by a large grizzly bear. He said it was so big, that when it stood on its hind legs it towered over him, its claws as long as his head was wide. The beast’s claws snagged him in his side (Francis had seen the ugly swollen scars on his father, four parallel pink lines that ran across his ribs) and he fell to the ground. The only reason he was able to survive was because the beast stupidly fell over his spear, skewering itself and falling on top of him. He was lucky some natives heard the skirmish and walked over, helping the massive beast off him and patching up his wounds before he could bleed to death. Francis remembered how his mother scowled, her lips sealed in a thin line as she listened. She needn’t say anything; Francis knew she was only thinking of how close she came to being a widow with her belly swollen with an unborn child while he and his brother simply marvelled at the tale.

On a later Spring day when their father returned once again, with a little Monique bouncing happily on his leg, he told them about a marvellous sight he’d seen in the wintery north. He had been hunting with the natives of the land when they came across a cliff with a frozen waterfall, it’s icy curtain frozen into jagged stalactites to the lake below. Movement caught their eyes and a herd of caribou ran past the falls. Their majestic, powerful bodies were covered in a sandy fur, their antlers were big and wide, soft and mossy, and they had white manes that blended perfectly with the snow beneath them. The men stood on the cliff and watched them in wonder, until night fell upon them and the skies were lit with green and turquoise streaks of light, brightening the world beneath in the shimmering colours of an ocean in the dead of winter.

But the most memorable of all of his father’s returns will always be the chilly Spring morning where he returned with little baby Sophie in his arms, still nameless at the time. There were no stories around a warm fire or a feast that year. Their parents were locked in their room, his mother screaming at him as he tried to placate her. Francis didn’t understand any of it, and he and his siblings were too fascinated by the dark-skinned baby that was swaddled in their old crib to listen. She didn’t cry, but she didn’t smile either. She only stared at them one by one while their parents argued in the other room, until the screaming finally died down into broken sobs. Their father left the room and walked to the baby to pick her up, cooing softly at her as Francis had seen him do to Mathieu and Monique before. Only then did the baby smile and giggle. “This is your new baby sister. Her name is Sophie,” he told the three blond children. Francis remembered not understanding because he knew his mother had not been pregnant before their father’s return as she had been with Mathieu and Monique. If this was not Maman’s baby, then how can she be their sister?

It was much later that Francis learned their father had bedded an aboriginal woman on his previous excursion to the North. When he returned to be with her again to keep him warm through the winter, he discovered that she died in childbirth and had left an orphaned daughter behind. Heartbroken at losing his mistress and unable to bear the thought of his child growing up motherless, he had decided to bring her home to be raised along with his Christian children.

Francis wasn’t sure if their mother ever forgave him, or even trusted him again, but he knew she pitied Sophie for being alone in the world and couldn’t find it in her to reject or neglect the child. After all, it wasn’t Sophie’s fault she was born into this wretched world.

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Francis finished working the turkey. When it was fully plucked, Francis started a brine for it. He gutted it and cleaned it before submersing the bird into the salty water. By nightfall, it would be ready for spit-roasting on an open fire. Until then, he helped Mathieu finish with the rabbits while the women prepared the dried peas and carrots.

The longer it took for Papa to come home, the more nervous Francis became. He knew he should be studying for school on Monday, but he couldn’t bring himself to concentrate enough to put 2 and 2 together. He thought back to the story of the bear and wondered if this year was the year that finally killed his father. So he distracted himself by baking more bread than they needed.

It was nearing evening by the time a figure could be seen in the distance, coming closer to their farm and seeming to have come from Québec City. It’s high walls and cityscape could just barely be seen from their farm, so it was easy for them to venture there for schooling or supplies, but it was rare to receive visitors from there. The only visitors they ever have are usually other farmers—city folk like to keep to themselves, it seemed. Still, Francis and Mathieu stood on their front porch as they watched the stranger near, hope blooming in their chests that it may be their father, but there was no explanation as to why he would be coming from the city rather than from the woods as he normally does.

When the shadow in the distance could be clearly identified as a man, Mathieu rushed inside to get their mother. She came to join them on the porch in watching the man approach and only when he was a few meters away, entering the light of the lanterns they lit at nightfall, did they finally recognize him and jumped up to greet him, all four children running up to embrace the man they’d missed all winter. Maman stood back and watched with a soft smile, letting their laughter and glee fill the night.

“Francis, would you start roasting the turkey?” she finally instructed, breaking them apart as the boys went to tend to the meat and the girls tended to the vegetables and took out the bread, cheese, cream, and syrup.

Papa let out a content sigh as he entered the warmth of their hearth, sitting heavily at the table for the first comforting meal of the year. “I love you all so much,” he greeted, gazing at his wife as he said this. Maman stubbornly wouldn’t meet his gaze, but smiled coyly at him. “My little coquette,” he teased quietly. He was just so happy to be home.

“What stories do you have for us this time, papa?” asked Monique, voicing what they were all thinking.

“I’m afraid I have something very serious to discuss this time, chérie,” said Papa. “But now is not the time for that. Let’s eat dinner first,” he said, handing his money pouch to Maman so she could count his earnings later in the evening when he would be sitting and smoking by the fire.

The girls nodded at his words. By late evening, they were all sitting at the table with a small turkey and a bowl of boiled, buttered vegetables. Maman carved the turkey and served her husband a hearty serving, then Francis, Mathieu, Monique, Sophie, and herself last. Then they bowed their heads to pray and say grace before eagerly digging into the small feast, each telling Papa what they had done or learned over the winter while he was away. By the time they all finished, they were all anticipating the news he claimed to bring, but he insisted that they all sit by the fire to digest their meals before he could explain everything.

Papa sat in the good chair of the main room while Monique started a fire. The children sat on cushions around him while their mother sat at the cleared up kitchen table to count their money just a few feet away.

“There are tensions between the  Iroquois and the Algonquins in our area,” he explained, the soft clinking of coins in the kitchen and the crackling of the fireplace being the only other sounds in the room. “Since we are allied with the Algonquins, we are being pressured into joining their wars in order to continue trading with them.”

“But why would you need to fight, Papa?” asked Francis. He didn’t understand much of politics, but he understood enough to know that it didn’t have much of an impact in their lives.

“I don’t, but it is tiring being an individual hunter when I have an entire community at my disposal,” he explained. “I want to join the fur-traders—I can make more money if I were to work with them and use their connections with the Indians. That is why I went to the city and I enlisted myself into the French army.”

The clinking of coins suddenly stopped. The children looked towards their mother and found her posture had grown rigid and stern. Their father pointedly stared into the fire in front of him, knowing what sort of glares his wife would be throwing to the back of his head.

“It will be for the best,” he continued. His tone had grown monotonous, almost daring his wife to speak up and protest. “Not only will I be earning myself a soldier’s salary, which is already far greater than the measly earnings I make as a farmer, but I will also have better connections to Indian tribes for selling my catches in the winter, earning me even more money for our family.” Although he spoke to the children, they all knew those words were directed at Maman.

“You are stupid,” she spat angrily at the back of his head. Mathieu recoiled at her tone.

“You’re being emotional, Véronique—”

“Do not start with me, Ferdinand!”

Maman stood up, and it was at that moment that the four children collectively decided it would be best to get up and leave the house. They gathered into the barn where it would be warmer, the sound of screaming and shouting just barely muffled by the distance and the walls. The children talked quietly amongst themselves, wondering what will come from this, but none of them willing to voice the possibility that their father might die at war. After all, every time he left for the winter was a prolonged goodbye because there was the possibility he might never come home.

Perhaps this was too much for their romantic-hearted mother.

An hour passed before the screaming died down. None of them would venture to the house just yet—Francis had the unfortunate surprise of catching them in the middle of a loud bout of sex last time—so they waited until one of them would come to get them.

Sophie had fallen asleep in a bundle of hay by the time Papa came out to look for them. Mathieu scooped her in his arms as they were sent back inside, but he laid a heavy hand on Francis’ shoulder before he could follow them. “I need to speak with you,” said Papa.

Francis felt his blood run cold at his serious tone, but he stayed behind and turned to face him.

“Francis, you are old enough now,” said Papa. “There was always a chance I might die out in the wilderness, but it is important that I tell you now. If I die, you need to make sure you take care of your poor mother.”

Francis bit his lip. He already knew this from many years ago. “Is this because you conscripted, Papa?”

“There’s a greater chance than ever that I might die,” he explained. “But at least now, if I die in battle, the French army will give you a pension to help you. Use that money wisely. Get an education, get a bigger farm with more animals, and farmhands, do what you must so that our family thrives.”

Francis let his words sink in. He couldn’t help but find this conversation pointless; their family had already become his responsibility every time Papa left for half the year. But still, for the sake of his father’s conscience, he nodded in understanding.

“Good boy,” nodded Papa. He gave his shoulder a pat and the two walked back to the house together.

That night, for the first time, Papa shared one of his cigarettes with Francis and the two smoked and drank together until late in the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Francis’ father is what we call a “coureur des bois”: men who farm during the spring, summer, and fall, and hunt during the winter. It was actually really common for them to have sex with aboriginal women during their hunting season while they were away from home—whether consensual or rape (can’t deny that shit happened)—but Sophie is a special case in this story. It’s actually the reason so many people can claim some sort of Native American heritage in North America, but only vaguely; unfortunately, like Sophie’s case, none of these births would be legally documented, so it’s really impossible to know how prevalent this was beyond physical characteristics and genetics.
> 
> Also, I'm giving these chapters exactly the same titles as the Dead Man's Prayer chapters, in the same order. I went through the plot line and realized that they coincide perfectly... scary... Also figured out how many chapters this will end up being, more or less :D


	3. End of the Line

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings added for blood, gore, and violence.

This year’s farming season had been a particularly hard one for everyone. In previous years, the children would go to school in Québec City after working the early hours and would return in the afternoon—the boys would help their father in the fields and the girls would help their mother in the house. But now that Papa had to be in the city every day for his military duties, the boys could only attend school half the time, and they could never go together; one of them always had to stay behind to work the land.

Every Sunday after church, the family would fill their carriage with their fresh stock of produce, eggs, cream, and syrup. Their father used to be with them on these excursions to the town market, but since conscripting, their father had taken to staying home on these Sundays, this being the only time he allowed himself to sit and relax.

For these reasons, Francis had slowly grown to resent his father more and more with every passing week since his return as a soldier. The old man hadn’t even tried to win back his wife’s affection, something Francis considered a romantic routine of theirs, and now was lacking. This is also why they were all surprised when Mr. Bonnefoy volunteered to join them on one late autumn Sunday. The boys and their parents ventured into the city once again and the girls stayed behind with the animals and their chores.

Francis always found the sight of Québec City to be impressive, but the smell of it made his stomach turn. It was particularly bad near their stall, which was just a stone’s throw away from the fishermen and their stalls on the edge of Saint Laurent. As much as Maman wanted to be in the town square near the middle of town, this was where she could afford to set up their produce for selling. Francis thought she had become unnervingly good at using the bad, fishy smell to her advantage, selling their produce by enticing any passerby with recipes that complimented their corn and potatoes with a good, buttery cod.

He knew the fishermen loved her for it and some cast her glances that made Francis more than a little uncomfortable. He was glad to be given an excuse to walk away from their stall—he and his father went deeper into the city to shop for things they need while Mrs. Bonnefoy and Mathieu remained at the stall.

And of course, the boy and his father walked in uncomfortable silence. Mr. Bonnefoy had decided to wear his military uniform on this trip to the city and although anyone that glanced at the two together would know they are father and son, Francis couldn’t help but feel like he looked like a delinquent being led away by a soldier. The thought only added to his sense of guilt.

“Francis, why do you look so troubled?” asked Mr. Bonnefoy as they walked through the city, their eyes lazily glancing over the various shops to find what they need.

Francis frowned at the sudden question, unwilling to answer it honestly and risk angering his father.

“I know you are unhappy,” persisted the older man, trying to coax his son into talking to him the way he used to. “You have barely spoken to me since came back from the hunt. Has something changed since I left?” he asked worriedly.

Francis let the silence fall and stick, making their time together more and more uncomfortable, his father becoming more agitated.

Losing his patience, Mr. Bonnefoy grabbed Francis’ shoulder to stop him in his tracks, forcing him to face him and planting both of his hands firmly on Francis’ shoulders, startling the boy. “Is this because of my uniform?” he asked him in an almost challenging tone. “Because you know as well as I that it is the right thing to do.”

“For who?” snapped Francis. “This is only right for you and your greed.”

“Why would you say something like this, Francis?” asked Mr. Bonnefoy, genuinely hurt by his son’s words. “When have I ever wronged you?”

“I’m not the one you have wronged—continue to wrong,” spat Francis. “It is Maman that you have hurt over and over again and this is the worst thing you have done yet! If you die, it will destroy her!”

Mr. Bonnefoy froze, frowning down at his fiery son. He had his mother’s romantic heart, after all. “So you think that this is suicide,” he clarified.

“That’s not what I said,” exclaimed Francis, offended that he would think that. “But did you even consider how the rest of us might feel about this decision of yours? You never thought to consult Maman first!”

“If I had, she would have said no and never allowed it,” reminded Mr. Bonnefoy. “I knew she would not be able to think rationally of it, letting her heart cloud her mind. But I did this for our family. I thought you would at least understand,” he frowned.

Francis returned the frown. “Of course I understand,” he said. “I’m not stupid. But this has been a low blow for Maman and you haven’t even tried to make it up to her.”

“Why did you think I’m came here today?” sighed Mr. Bonnefoy. “I dread coming to the city now because of these military duties, and besides, I’m always so tired by the end of the week. The reason why I pulled you away from the stall is so you could help me find a gift for Maman.”

Francis’ expression softened at that. His aggression was replaced with a sense of flattery that his father would entrust him with this, that he intended to surprise her and shared this secret with him. “What sort of gift?” he asked.

Mr. Bonnefoy smiled at his son’s change of heart. “I heard some Parisians came to settle here. I want to buy one of the perfumes that they brought here with them for their shop, and I think a cake for this evening after dinner would make a nice treat.”

“Perfume?” Francis’ interested perked up. “That would be expensive, Papa.”

“Yes, but I’ve been saving up with my salary so that I could buy Maman an expensive gift,” chuckled Mr. Bonnefoy, handing Francis a pouchful of coins. “I’ll leave you in charge of buying a pretty cake for her. Will you do that for me, Francis?”

Francis accepted the money, nodding up at his father. “I know where to get one,” he said, glad for the task.

“Good boy. Make sure you return before the church bell rings four o’clock. We’ll need to travel back home, then, and I want these gifts to remain a surprise until we get home.”

Francis nodded. With a quick farewell, he and his father parted ways, the soldier heading downtown where the wealthier Frenchmen lived while Francis ventured south, near the cathedral to visit the bakery.

Francis walked through the streets of Québec with a much lighter heart, glad to see his father had been putting some effort into making his mother happy after all, even if it wasn’t obvious. Mrs. Bonnefoy had always fantasized about the possibility of someday being able to afford such a luxury and Mr. Bonnefoy was finally able to provide it for her. He smiled to himself imagining his mother’s reaction when papa presents his gift to her and how happy it would make her. He looked forward to seeing his mother smile again.

Francis had just barely reached the Notre-Dame Cathedral when the smile slid off his face, his heart dropping into his gut at what he found. Blood littered the streets with bodies mangled by wounds inflicted by swords or rifles or both. Most of these bodies bore the blue uniforms that marked them as French soldiers, a few of them wearing the unmistakable red of the British militia, their uniforms stained a dark brown from the blood that soaked into the ornately woven, bright fibres. Some bodies—both soldiers and plebeian—even littered the steps of the cathedral, clearly shot down on their way to sanctuary and the stone steps of the Notre-Dame were now decorated with a glistening red carpet. No longer consumed in his thoughts, the screeching chaos of war filtered through to him.

Fear gripped Francis: they were under attack from the British and his father was wandering around the city in an untarnished blue coat. His mother and younger brother stood defenceless by a stall on the edge of the Saint Laurent, the only way the British could have possibly invaded their walled city.

Francis ran.

Before the thought could fully materialize, he was running to the docks as quickly as his young legs would allow so he could escort his family to safety, assuming they weren’t already dead, cut down in their enemy’s path.

He ran, his thoughts unable to form any consistent thoughts with adrenaline giving him the energy he needed not to slip over the cobblestones or to jump over the bodies that littered the main roads of the city. Time seemed to move so agonizingly slowly until he reached the docks in a desperate search for Maman and Mathieu.

But once he got there, everything seemed to be happening so much faster than he could process. He barely caught the glimpse of a red coat from the corner of his eye before he thought to hide himself behind a nearby barrel of herring. He saw just enough of the Brit to see a mess of blond hair and the bushiest, ugliest eyebrows he’d ever laid eyes on. He moved to walk away from the docks, determined to find another route to their family’s stall when a loud “Hey, you!” rang through the air, piercing Francis’ eardrums and causing his heart to stop. He turned to run, but the soldiers moved on him faster, catching his tunic into their gloved hands and capturing him, easily picking up his lithe frame over their shoulder to carry him away who knew where.

Francis screamed and cursed at the man carrying him away, thrashing against his shoulders and back, but the older man’s grip was steeled. Their garbled tongue filled his ears and hurt his head and his heart, making him all the more desperate to escape.

“Francis!” screeched a man’s voice, and it took Francis far too long to process whose voice was screaming so unnaturally before he looked up to see where it came from, stopping his thrashing just long enough to note the hint of blue in his periphery, the ringing gunshot, the fresh bloom of red over the poor soldier’s chest and Francis found himself screaming in horror. Even as they carried him aboard their boat, he was still screaming, his body losing the last bit of fight that was left in him.

He was carried below deck and dropped to the floorboards like a sack of potatoes, and Francis only stirred enough to gasp as the air was knocked out of him and gulped air back into his lungs. It was after several moments of staring into the dark underbelly of the British vessel that he realized who screamed his name, who crumpled to the ground before his eyes.

In his grief, he didn’t notice the galley filling with other young bodies, boys and girls alike. He had gone into a trance-like state, the ringing of the gunshot the only thing grounding him in this new reality.

Much later, he heard quiet sobs and felt tiny arms circle his shoulders, hot tears soaking his dirty tunic. “Francis,” whimpered his brother’s voice, saying his name over and over again like a mantra, finally pulling Francis out of the dark place he wound up in. He had to be strong for Mathieu—there was no one else to do it anymore.

Slowly, he pulled his younger brother into his lap, soothing him and running a placating hand through his thick blond curls. Mathieu clung to him and Francis clung to Mathieu.

They still had each other and that was significantly better than being alone in a dark, grey world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know that Quebec City briefly passed into possession of the British from 1629-1632? Yeah, I didn’t know that either. I was researching Québec’s history while writing this chapter and it turns out that on the 19th of July, 1629, a Scottish fleet led by a man named Admiral David _Kirke_ intercepted supplies which starved the population into surrendering Québec to them. He was knighted for it in 1633. I wish I could say I made this shit up or that I based these events on that, but history fucking writes itself. Look him up on Wikipedia or something lol


	4. So Much to Learn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me so long to post this :0 the last three days have been crazy for me...

Arthur had to admit that he hated the schools here. Back home, he and his siblings enjoyed the luxury of having tutors come into their home every day at their convenience to teach them everything from literature, to history, to mathematics, and sometimes even a little bit of artful recreation where they were encouraged to paint, draw, sculpt, write, dance, or whatever it is they fancied that day.

But out here in the New World, no one had the time or luxury (or knowledge) to be an adequate tutor for the Kirkland children. The captain placed his children in a public school house where they were divided by their age and levels, but all the Kirkland boys were more or less near the same level and all of them were too well-educated for the level they were settled in, all because their Latin was “imperfect.”

Otherwise, Arthur and his brothers had no special skill-sets that would make them useful in the workplace and all were too young for the military quite yet.

“It’s important that you all pick French as an elective,” warned their father one morning over breakfast.

“Why would we want to do a stupid thing like that?” said Braith, still too young to understand the subtleties of language.

“Because when we invade the capital of New France, we will be bringing the children to Boston.”

“Why?” asked Alistair, honestly curious to know the thought process behind this decision and wanting to understand.

“It’s not the children’s faults they’re raised alongside savages,” reasoned the captain. “I made a suggestion to the admiral that we capture and bring the children with us so that they can have an opportunity for a proper upbringing and education. He has graciously accepted, so long as it is done delicately.”

Arthur frowned at this news. He had never met a French person, but he has heard they’re pompous and air headed, and can be outrageously flamboyant with their mannerism. He often wondered how people like that could have possibly taken over their lands centuries earlier.

Although unhappy to learn yet another language, Arthur and Braith did pick up French as an elective. Alistair opted for astronomy.

When the French did join their ranks, Arthur was none the wiser. He would have never known they were French if it weren’t for their horrible accents, until he was sitting in class one day and one of them, a tall boy with long blond hair walked to the front of their class and introduced himself as Francis Bonnefoy, with that strange, nasally way of pronouncing it like “Frrrawnsseess.” Arthur failed to wrap his ears around the strange tongue, not until four weeks into his French classes and it all dawned on him.

From then on, he paid much closer attention to the newcomers. He wondered how he never noticed them before when he saw how isolated they were among the English kids. Everyone gawked at them, staying a clear five feet away from them in any direction when it can be helped, and when it couldn’t, the English kids would lean away from them like they might catch tetanus from the oil of their skin.

Arthur quickly noticed that when Francis wasn’t in class, he was always with a younger blond boy, a fragile looking thing that he kept a protective arm around. Francis always looked like he expected someone to come around the corner and slit their throats, and he seemed perfectly willing to take the blow if it meant the younger one was spared.

“Where have I seen that boy before?” Braith asked aloud one day, noticing his older brother staring at the two foreigners.

“The tall one is named Francis,” provided Arthur.

“No, not that one,” said Braith. “The little one with the curly hair. I think he’s in my class.”

“Do you remember his name?” asked Arthur, endlessly curious about the two.

“It was something Bon-ny foy,” said Braith dismissively, sounding “foy” like he meant to say “foil.”

“You mean Bonnefoy,” sighed Arthur, realizing the two might be brothers.

“Oh, yeah! I think the teacher said his name is Matthew.”

“Is Matthew a common name in France?”

Braith only replied with a shrug, running off to play with his friends and leaving Arthur alone. Now that he thought about it, he did notice some similarities between the pair. It certainly explained Francis’ defensiveness regarding the younger boy. It didn’t, however, explain the dark circles in his eyes and how seeing his blue eyes left an icy trail into his soul. It was the only way Arthur came to describe the look of complete hatred that Francis seemed to wear like a cloak.

Most poignantly, Arthur wonders over just how _human_ the two look. He always assumed that if he saw a Frenchman, it would be painfully obvious and that they were as different as black and white, but Arthur was quickly learning that this wasn’t the case. The only thing black and white about them was the language they spoke, and even then, thanks to his French classes, he was learning that English was a distorted, patchy shade of grey while French stood out in pristine white. The French had truly, thoroughly invaded them all those centuries ago.

It hurt to think about, so he diverted his eyes. When Alistair came out of the school house, they found Braith and finally walked back home. Arthur had no idea where Francis and Matthew went after school, but he was curious to find out and asked his father about it later that night after dinner while the boys did their homework and their father drank in the smoke room. 

“We put them in a public house to be taken care of by a nanny,” informed the Captain. “Why?” This question came more sharply, almost defensive.

“I only wonder where they go after school. Aren’t you afraid of a mutiny from them?” asked Arthur. “What if they gang up? Surely a nanny wouldn’t be able to stop them.”

“That’s why there are guards assigned to the house.”

Arthur frowned, imagining a few dozen children in a large home with an old, matronly woman, windows barred and guards on every floor, at every door to the home. 

“So it’s like a prison,” he said sombrely.

“Not at all,” laughed his father. “If they were in prison, they would be dead by the end of the month.”

Arthur frowned at the thought but didn’t push the issue further.

The next day, he still found himself glancing looks at Francis in class. The bags under his eyes seemed a little less surprising now that he was a little more aware of his situation. He couldn’t possibly imagine the situation he was in, and frankly, he didn’t want to spare it much thought.

But Francis sure was pretty for a boy. He wasn’t so bad to look at.

But one day in early winter, Francis turned and pointedly fixed a sharp gaze at Arthur, letting him know with that one, dark look that he was entirely aware of the British boy’s staring and that he has had enough of it. Arthur swallowed hard at the realization and quickly looked away, not daring to even glance at him again. 

But it was not meant to be. That day after school, while Arthur was waiting for Alistair to finish up, the blond walked up to him, his eyes fixed in cold aggression at him.

“ _C’est quoi ton problème_?” he snapped, before quickly adding. “What the hell is your problem?” in his heavily accented English.

“I, uh.. Je.. That is to sa—”

“Shut up!” spat Francis. “Don’t poison my language with your disgusting tongue. It’s bad enough that you poison our land with your filth.”

Arthur quickly bristled at his harsh words. “Isn’t that uncalled for? It’s not like I—”

“Uncalled for?! Your people murdered our parents in front of us and then pretend to be our saviours!” shouted Francis. “I’ve never hated anyone more than I hate you.”

Arthur’s face reddened at the fresh assault. “ _I_ never did anything to you!” he shouted. “We’re not monsters, you know!”

“Really? I have never known an Englishman that wasn’t rude or plainly cruel,” spat Francis. “The day I never see one of your kind couldn’t come soon enough.”

“I’m not like that!” exclaimed Arthur, his tone almost pleading. He didn’t know why he felt compelled to change Francis’ opinion but he was determined to go through with it.

“Prove it,” said Francis haughtily. “Although I fail to see how any of you aren’t barbarians.”

Arthur quickly bit back a retort about how _they_ certainly weren’t the barbarians, unlike the French that willingly bred with savages, but he didn’t think that would help his cause and kept that to himself. “Then be my friend,” he said instead. “I’ll show you that we’re not that different.”

Francis looked at him thoughtfully. His eyes were still cold and glistening, but his mouth seemed to soften just subtly enough for Arthur to notice the difference. He wordlessly nodded. “Okay… You better not disappoint me, rosbif.”

“I won’t… whatever that means,” he said, stunned at the change. “You’ll see.”

Just then, Alistair walked out of the school house and Francis slipped away to find his brother, disappearing into the bustling evening crowd.


	5. Mère Perle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Voltron Gen Mini Bang fic is up. If you're into Voltron, then you can check that out...

Francis couldn’t believe the nerve of that little British boy. First his people had him and his brother taken prisoner, then they’re trying to brainwash them into being perfect little British Puritans, now one of their runts wouldn’t stop ogling him at school.

At first, Francis didn’t think much of it. He didn’t expect he and the other french boys would be able to go to an English school house and _not_ get stares, sneers, the occasional derogatory comment, but while most of the other boys got over the novelty after a week or two, this one just wouldn’t give in. Anytime Francis caught him staring, the blonde would look away like he wasn’t somehow caught red-handed staring at another boy like he was in love with him. 

Under normal circumstances, Francis might have thought it was cute, might have even teased him and let him on, but these weren’t normal circumstances. That boy was as much his enemy as the men who murdered his parents. 

Eventually, Francis’ annoyance turned to irritation, until he eventually plainly felt offended. After one particularly frustrating day at school, being mocked by the _teacher_ for his heavily accented English, the language that he spat from his lips out of necessity more than anything else, he couldn’t take it anymore. Those curious stares infuriated him. He walked over to the little British boy with fire in his eyes fuelled by the hell in his heart, ready to rip him open with the fury he contained and when his thin little lips dared to speak his language, Francis saw red and was ready to pummel the child to a pulp.

But the British puppy looked so terrified of him, it was just enough to remind Francis that he’s better than them. He wouldn’t sink to their level. And when he said he wanted to prove that not all Brits were cruel, senseless beasts, Francis couldn’t help the fresh flare of anger but his mother raised him better. He wasn’t heartless. His mother had always forgiven, had always made room for love amongst all the other dark thoughts in her heart, and there was no reason Francis couldn’t do the same.

In that moment, he decided to spare the British boy. He would give him the opportunity to prove himself worthy, let him try to pry open the metal cage of Francis’ soul. If he was so blatantly curious about him, he could put in the effort. Francis wasn’t about to meet him half-way, either. There was nothing the other boy could do to surprise him, and it would be very hard to soften him up.

So the next day at school, Francis didn’t know what to expect, except disappointment. He waited for his brother as always, but he also waited to see if the British boy would hold up his promise. He was only a little surprised to find that he wasn’t staring at him this time—the boy walked over to him with only a little bit of hesitation. Good. This meant he was afraid of him and Francis didn’t want him to ever _stop_ being afraid.

“Do you know where the townhouse is on Cornhill Street?” he asked suddenly without a ‘how are you’ or ‘hello.’ Such a rude start.

“Of course I know where the townhouse is,” scoffed Francis. His prison was just around the corner from it. 

“Good. Then meet me there Sunday morning at 9,” grinned the boy before heading off to rejoin his fiery-headed brother. 

Francis shook his head with a sigh. He seemed like such an excitable lad suddenly. He never even introduced himself. His mother would have smacked him if he were hers.

He didn’t get the chance to tell him that he wasn’t allowed to leave the house on Sundays. It was a pity. Francis was genuinely curious to see how he could prove his countrymen’s worthiness to his eyes. 

***

When Monday came, Francis wondered how the boy would react to his absence Sunday. It wasn’t exactly his fault—he was never given a chance to tell him he couldn’t be there. He expected anger, vengefulness, maybe even derision but he didn’t expect the sad-looking pout the blond boy gave him at school before turning away. 

Good God. It was like his feelings had actually been hurt. Francis’ theory was confirmed when the boy never cast a glance at him throughout class or recess. He was so intently focused on his mathematics, and it was only after lunch that Francis realized that he was the one staring now. 

But he just couldn’t wrap his head around it. Why was the English boy so hurt that Francis didn’t go to the townhouse on Sunday? It’s not like they’re friends. He didn’t _owe_ him his company. 

But Francis felt guilty. He couldn’t help but pity the poor boy. It couldn’t be easing living a life where you’re so sensitive to other’s actions like this. 

So that afternoon, as they both waited for their younger brothers, Francis walked over to the blond. 

“Bonjour,” he said sheepishly before biting his tongue and adding, “hello. About yesterday, I—”

“You don’t need to explain yourself, frog,” said the blond, crossing his arms and looking anywhere but at Francis. “If you don’t actually want to make any friends here, that’s not my problem.”

Francis scoffed at his haughty attitude. “I was _about to say_ that we’re not allowed to leave the house on Sundays. But you left before I could tell you as much.”

The boy’s eyes grew wide. “Not even for church?” he said in quiet bewilderment. 

“They have a nun come and give us a sermon after breakfast,” said Francis. “Besides, it was rude of you to make arrangements like that without asking me first, or even introducing yourself,” he added, crossing his arms as well. 

The boy’s face turned red in embarrassment. “Right, um…” he stuttered, wiping his palms on his slacks. “My name is Arthur. I actually already know your name so I just sort of assumed you knew mine,” he said sheepishly.

Francis clicked his tongue. “Such a silly boy,” he said under his breath. “And our curfew is at 5, so whatever you want to show me will have to be before then on weekdays. On Saturdays, they make us work from sunrise to sundown so I’d rather not waste what little free time I have.”

“Good to know,” nodded Arthur with a shine to his eyes as though he were actually contemplating all the possibilities. Francis was a little touched by the thought. “I’ll figure something out and let you know,” he beamed, smiling up at Francis. 

“Oh… d’accord,” said Francis, unsure what to make of his enthusiasm. Without letting himself get too wrapped up in the sudden change of mood, Francis turned away to join Mathieu so they could walk home together. 

And that night, as the two French blondes laid huddled together in the cot they shared, Francis couldn’t help wondering more and more about the strange English boy. He found himself becoming curious. Was he born here in the New World too? He obviously had brothers, but they didn’t seem close like he and Mathieu and he wondered why. His hands didn’t look like they’d worked a day in his life, so what did he do in his time outside of school? Why was he so sad to not see Francis and why was he so happy when he learned it was because he simply couldn’t be there?

Francis thought Arthur was strange and he found himself getting curious about more than just the “good side” of the British Arthur promised to show him. He couldn’t help thinking of Arthur as a rare thing, like glimpsing mother of pearl in murky waters or a rainbow on a sunny day. 

Francis’ chested tightened realizing that Arthur had already fulfilled his promise.

And as the years went by, Arthur proved it over and over again. Even as the first of the Beaver Wars were reignited in the Saint Laurent valley and Arthur’s father had to defend their little settlement from the Native Americans fighting for their land and hunting grounds back, he would still come back to Francis and show him English hospitality, civility, always the utmost respect like they were somehow equals. 

But he was hotheaded as well, Francis quickly realized. He learned that Arthur did not love his father, nor did he care much for his brothers and sisters beyond shared blood. He treated family like a necessary evil, people he needed to get along with only because they belonged to him and he belonged to them for as long as they lived. And when one of them tampered with his peace of mind, Arthur was quick to lose his temper. 

The only person he never dared raise his voice with was his father, and that was something Francis found peculiar in a worrisome way. The respect he showed his father was unnatural and pained, and Francis pitied him for it. He couldn’t imagine not loving his father, but then again, his father never laid a hand on him either. 

Despite all the pent up aggression and frustration, he found Arthur had a surprisingly gentle nature. He more than once caught him feeding stray dogs or cats in the streets and once secretly nursed a bird back to health when it flew through his open window and knocked itself into the wall (Francis had to help him when this happened, since Arthur had no idea how to take care of birds and Francis did grow up nursing chicks). He was easy to offend and easier to hurt. Francis came to understand why he was so reluctant to make new friends—he couldn’t handle the hurt he would feel if they walked out of his life.

It somehow endeared him to Francis in a strange way that he was not prepared for. It snuck up on him over the years, and now as adolescents, it only grew stronger.

It also made it all the more painful when Arthur received sad news one day that would always linger in Fancis’ memory.


	6. A Letter Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a long time but the fic isn't dead. Thank you for putting up with me ♡

**Eight years later, and worlds apart…**

_Dear Francis_ ,

_I’m sorry it has taken me so long to reply to your last letter. Things have gotten a little complicated at home, so it has taken me quite a while to gather my thoughts onto paper so I can adequately explain my current situation._

_First of all, congratulations are in order! Mathieu must be so proud after winning the logrolling competition, and at such a young age! I know that he misses putting his hands to good use without a farm to work on, but I know he’ll love working with the lumberjacks. I’m happy to hear they’ve decided to take him in and train him. You must be so proud of him._

_It was so lovely receiving your letter, Francis. I know my departure came as a sudden surprise to the both of us—I truly wish we had had more time together. Not a day goes by where I don’t wonder what your opinion might be on some silly new fashion here in England, or wondering if you thought the pastries at the shop were too dry and “disgraceful” to your French heritage._

_And yet our time together was cut short no thanks to my father. He was the only reason we moved to the New World and yet he was all too eager to move us back to England once he received the promotion he had been pining after. He’d become such a tyrant since he became a Navy General. He has been pushing my sisters into ladyships classes and pushing potential husbands onto them. He has also been pushing Ally and I to join the cadets so we can “learn discipline and respect” like we haven’t spent a single day in our lives_ _not_ _doing so._

_And then Ally finally lost his mind. I don’t know what he was thinking running off the way he did but now my father gives the rest of us no freedom at all. I had to bribe one of the maids to post this letter for me…_

_But it has brought me so much joy to hear that the baker has finally agreed to let you work for him. You are one step closer to becoming a pastry chef, my friend! Perhaps some fancy restauranteur in France will sample your delicious treats and hire you on the spot!_

_I, for one, have decided against becoming a detective. With my brother running away, I have decided to join the military. I will find my brother and bring him home before he tarnishes our family name if it is the last thing I do. This I promise._

_I do hope we can see each other again soon. I miss our time together so much, old friend, even if it was bittersweet, right to the very end. Five years is too long to spend apart and your letters are becoming fewer and fewer…_

_Still, each one is a treasure,_

_Yours truly,_

_Arthur_

_~ ~ ~_

After reading over the letter, Francis had to resist the urge to burn it. It only served to remind him how far removed he was from reality. He had been foolish to think that he could have a chance at living a normal life within the British settlements, but he has been restricted and punished every step of the way. This foolish boy was the reason he ever let himself become so soft and complacent with his headstrong ideas and sweet words.

When the authorities discovered he was hired by the baker, they fined the poor man and dragged Francis back to his prison, the house he shared with the other French children. He was flogged ten times in the chapel for working a job that did not serve the empire and then was locked into it to reflect on his sins.

Francis had to wonder what they would do if they caught one of the girls selling their bodies in the markets. He had to admit he had been tempted to do the same himself.

But Mathieu had found a safe way to escape them: the loggers said they needed the hands for a trip into the woods and they took him with them. They "didn't notice" when he'd slipped away into the night, fleeing for New France. Francis hoped his brother was well and he hoped he was reunited with their sisters.

Now Francis was reaching an age where not working was simply not an option. He needed to find work, but preferably something that would take him out of the city walls the way Mathieu did. There was a nagging thought at the back of his mind that lingered and waned with time, but the urge grew with every passing day he's reminded to get out of school and work.

One day, he was working through the open markets on Sunday, after managing to sneak out of the house. He glanced over the products, noting their quality as his father had taught him to do all those years ago. And then the color of the vendor's skin caught his attention. He'd never really given much thought to the natives that came into the city to sell their pelts, given that he'd grown up around them, but this time, it gave Francis an idea.

"Hello. Would you happen to know how I can become a hunter?" he asked the wiseman.

The old man gave him a toothy grin. "You are not one of the Englishmen," he said in a heavy accent. "You are from the north."

"Yes… Actually, I'd like to find my way back there. Could you show me the way?" he asked the man.

"For the right price, I will take you to the other white men," said the native, patting Francis' shoulder with a heavy hand. "I can teach you how to hunt while we walk."

Francis smiled and greeted him the way his father once taught him to greet the Iroquois back home. He had no way of knowing if this man was of a similar tribe but the gesture seemed appreciated.

"Tomorrow before sunrise. Meet me by the mills on the river," said the older man, an Algonquin named Ahanu, Francis later learned.

With a grateful nod, he walked back to the house after running his errands, ready to pack up and leave an hour before sunrise to start his life anew.

* * *

 _Dear Arthur_ ,

_Your last letter to me was truly sweet. Unfortunately, I have stopped feeling the same way towards you._

_You see, you have promised to show me that not all Englishmen are cruel beasts and you have failed. You are very sweet when you want to be and you enraptured me in a fantasy that has shattered since you left for England all those years ago._

_You're a pompous fool, but noblehearted, and I have loved you so dearly for it. Sadly, there is no room in my heart to love anyone but my family. Since the love you feel towards your own family is so pained and trivial, I don't imagine you will ever understand my sentiments on the matter._

_I wish I could give Mathieu your congratulations, but sadly, he has long since escaped to New France, while I am still locked in a cage in the middle of enemy territory that was once gilded in gold by your sweet sympathy but has since rusted and lost whatever little bits of beauty that you provided._

_I admit that I resent you for ever making this hell seem more bearable than it truly is._

_If I'm lucky, I will have also escaped for New France before we can ever see each other again. I will not be sending you any more letters because I do not wish for you to know the location where I will be residing._

_All the best to you and your wayward brother,_

_Francis_

~ ~ ~

When Arthur received the letter from Boston, he was as excited as a boy on Christmas Day. He held onto it, thumbing the delicate paper in his breast pocket throughout the day, waiting until he could get back home in the privacy of his room so he could truly savour every word from his old friend, just as he's done with the last ones. Although he knew Francis had been landing on hard times lately, he was eager to hear how he had overcome the challenges, confident that he’d grow stronger with the years.

With every word he read, it became harder and harder to breathe. His head was swimming, trying to decode some meaning in the words Francis wrote so concisely and elegantly on the yellowed paper.

He hated him.

The pretty boy with the sky blue eyes, soft blond curls, hates him.

Arthur was crushed. He crumbled into his chair, the letter sitting on his desk lit by a single candle. A thought flitted across his mind to burnt the damned thing, but Arthur couldn't bring himself to destroy the last piece of his best friend he'll ever have.

Arthur didn't understand how Francis could be so cruel with his words. He'd done nothing but be kind to him, tried to make their time together enjoyable despite Francis' captivity and now the Frenchman was spitting in his face, calling him a villain for ever showing him kindness.

Then damn him.

Arthur could never forgive Francis for the hurt he had caused and the bridge he burnt between them.

Although it was late, Arthur put on his coat and went out into the courtyard to saddle his horse, ready to go out to sea and lose himself in the cadence of her son.


	7. What the Crow Sees

**Six years after moving back to London, Arthur’s world falls apart…**

_Arthur was in the library (the only room where his siblings ever left him alone) being lazy as he so rarely had the opportunity to be by idly playing with one of their hunting dogs' pups (they're so adorably easy to entertain--they love to have their bellies rubbed and Arthur loves to watch them squirm with excitement under his fingers). Of course, he knew he would be in trouble the moment he was caught bringing the pup into the house. He would be scolded for bringing her in, the matron might chastise him for separating her from her mother before she was ready, but Arthur knew that was a load of crap since the pups were certainly old enough. And then someone would tell his father and then Arthur would be made to do the foot servant's job for a week or until his feet were swollen to twice their size and his hands become calloused._

_He felt it was a small price to pay for this little bit of idle time simply being a kid. He and Alistair were under far too much pressure as of late and it was twiddling away at their sanity. He wasn't sure how much more they could take of the constant studying and training. He was still only fourteen and yet his father expected them to train like twenty year old soldiers._

_This is why Arthur was not surprised to hear shouting coming from the bedrooms upstairs. Alistair’s room was directly above and his fiery-headed brother was in a heated argument. Through the muffled bits he could hear, Arthur assumed it was their father he was screaming with. There was also the tell-tale footfall of their mother’s shoes against the floorboards._

_Such arguments have become common in their household recently. Alistair didn’t agree with the path their father set out for them. As short-tempered as Ally was, he didn’t like the prospect of a life of war, living out his last days in a distinguished red coat. In fact, neither of them did, which is why a silent pact had formed between the two, determined to hold each other up through the thick of it until one of them would inevitably die too young._

_Arthur tried to ignore the shouting from upstairs although it distinctly dampened his playtime mood so he picked up the pup and brought her back to her mother in the stables. When he returned, he went to this study room to continue his reading until it would be time to change for dinner._

_Normally, the argument would stop for dinner as Alistair would normally sulk quietly and Father and Mother would pointedly avoid directing conversation towards him, preferring a pleasant family dinner as opposed to more arguing. Tonight started out no differently._

_But something was shifting._

_Alistair clanged his silverware against the porcelain a little too loudly._

_He set his glass of water down a little too forcefully._

_His leg bounced irritably under the white tablecloth._

_He grunted and groaned and shot venomous darts to the head of the table where their father sat, blatantly ignoring Alistair’s micro-aggressions as he continued to talk to the girls about their prospective husbands._

_Arthur wished he had paid a little more attention to the argument they had earlier. Arguments between the oldest sibling and their parents were commonplace, but they were usually quickly forgotten or brushed under the carpet. This was clearly an exception. Arthur decided he would seek his brother out later that night once everyone else had gone to bed to get to the bottom of it._

_Later that evening, Arthur had changed into his most casual outfit before leaving his room. If someone asked where he was going, he had already prepared an excuse that he was going to the library to collect a book to read himself to sleep with. Of course, he was walking to his brother’s door and found it eerily quiet. After a gentle rasp of his knuckles and a soft whisper with no answer, Arthur decided to try the door and surprisingly found it unlocked. Even worse, his room was tidied, his bed made, and the candles were snuffed out. Alistair hadn’t retired for the night yet._

_Deciding to venture out and look for him, Arthur continued down the hall of their living quarters but slowed and quieted his steps when he heard murmuring from his parents’ bedroom. Not wanting to inspire any more of their ire, he tried to sneak past their room but little snippets wiggled to his ears and Arthur couldn’t help stopping outside their door to listen more carefully. There was a particular tone to their mother’s voice that didn’t sit well with Arthur, something foreboding, and he felt that he had a right to know what agitated his mother so much._

_“Why couldn’t you just let the boy do as he please,” seethed Mother under her breath. “Having a man of science in our family would do no harm!”_

_“I would hardly call astrology a ‘science’,” spat Father. “The Crown needs strong, able-bodied men in the military, not wasting away in some laboratory for some vain pursuit no one else can understand.”_

_“I don’t think Cambridge would waste their time teaching our boys ‘vain pursuits,’ Albert,” she argued. “Our boys are not meant to fight in wars like you! Why must you insist on murdering our sons, your_ heirs _, by sending them to war!”_

_At those words, Arthur felt his chest constrict. So Mother thought them weak…_

_“It hardly matters. Alistair will not be studying some pointless drivel and he will continue his training here! If he does not fall back in line, I will only work him harder,” declared Father._

_“Albert,” cried Mother. The tremor in her voice caught Arthur by surprise, given that his mother had always been a steely woman. “Albert, you heard him as well as I did. Albert, what if he hurts himself?” she fretted._

_“He’s probably in some tavern by the Thames,” scoffed Father. “That stupid boy thinks he’s clever when he sneaks off at night, drinking with those lowborn thugs.”_

_With this snippet of information, Arthur was jarred back to reality, remembering what he was after. Now even more determined to find his brother, he snuck away from their room to search every tavern on the Thames._

_He didn’t have to look far: Alistair appeared to have picked the bar closest to home. This should have been a clue to Arthur that Alistair didn’t care if he was caught, but this hardly occurred to him at the moment. Arthur only meant to duck in briefly, only long enough to see his brother’s shag of red hair, fairly noticeable among the tawny browns and blonds._

_“And_ then _I said to him, y’know what, y’old fart?! I’m not doing what_ you _want anymore. I’m gonna do, I’m gonna follow my dreams!”_

_Arthur could hear him over the musicians, screaming drunkenly at his drinking buddies. So he made his way over as discreetly as possible, not like the patrons noticed him bumping into them as he passed. Even Alistair didn’t notice him as he bumped his shoulder for his attention and Arthur worried over how reddened and bloated his face had become from the ale._

_But his drinking companions noticed him and eyed the young boy suspiciously while Alistair continued to badmouth their father until Alistair finally noticed that his not-so-captive audience were not cheering at his open rebellion anymore._

_Finally, he turned around sluggishly and when he saw Arthur standing behind him, eyes wide with worry and shock seeing his big brother like this, Alistair’s eyes also widened in something Arthur could only describe as fear._

_“What’re you doing here?” snapped Alistair, his attention now completely focused on the fact that his little brother was now standing in a bar an hour past his curfew._

_Arthur gave him a stunned blink. “I came to see you,” he replied innocently._

_“You stupid child! If father sees you here, you’ll never hear the end of it!”_

_“Father won’t see me here. He went to bed. Did you mean what you said to Father?” Arthur asked suddenly._

_“Of course I meant what I said! What did I say?” he asked, having already forgotten what this particular argument was about._

_“Mother’s worried you’ll hurt yourself,” explained Arthur._

_“Ridiculous. I’m moving out of the house, not throwing myself over a bridge,” exclaimed Alistair, calling a barmaid over to pull Arthur a drink._

_“Moving out! Are your disagreements really so bad?” said Arthur without touching the heavy mug of ale set in front of him._

_“I told Father I was going to study the stars no matter what he says or does. I’ve already been accepted to Cambridge and I found someone willing to pay for my education.”_

_Arthur gave him a look that expressed exactly how much he didn’t believe him. “Who would willingly pay for your degree like that? You didn’t find yourself one of those… y’know.. suitors, did you?”_

_“What? No!” exclaimed Alistair. “I found an_ employer _. I already formed a contract with him.”_

_Arthur couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “And who would be crazy enough to hire someone before they’re even qualified to? What would you even be qualified to do?!”_

_“I want to be a navigator,” he explained. “I’m tired of sitting on my arse and I certainly won’t want to do it as some captain that orders his men do all the decent work. I want to sail the seas and see the world! I want to experience things I can’t even dream of. This guy—his name is Armado—he says he’ll pay for my education if I come with him and work for him.”_

_“Why would he do such a stupid thing like that,” refuted Arthur his ire dissipating as he heard his own hopes and dreams from his brother’s lips._

_“Says he likes me,” chuckled Alistair with a shrug, lifting his mug in an informal cheer to drink to that._

_Arthur sat dumbly, sipping at the ale as he processed all this. “Does Father know you’ve been hired?” he wondered._

_Alistair sighed at the question. “No, and I don’t want him to. If he knew, he would never forgive me. Might even disown me,” he said with a sardonic laugh._

_Arthur didn’t respond to that. When the silence became too heavy, Alistair’s drinking friends were happy to continue their conversation before Arthur interrupted. Arthur had finished his ale by the time he mustered his courage._

_“You’re a real bastard, y’know that?” he slurred at his brother. “After making my life hell with your little tantrums, you’re turning you’re back on us. You have no honour!”_

_“Don’t speak to_ me _about honour!” retorted Alistair. “We all know why that Frog you met in America is sending you those letters! If anyone’ll bring shame to our family, it’ll be you.”_

_At those words, Arthur felt heat rise from his chest to his ears in a mixture of anger and embarrassment. “What’re you implying?!” he shouted, rising from his seat. The moment he stood, the crowded room spun around him dizzyingly. It was a feeling he had never experienced before and at that moment, it terrified him._

_“I’m implying you’re a molly!” exclaimed Alistair, rising as well and stumbling in the process._

_Arthur’s blood ran cold at the accusation. “Take that back,” he spat low._

_“No,” retorted Alistair stubbornly, stabbing Arthur in the chest with a pointed finger. “I would never deny the truth.”_

_Arthur didn’t know what came over him then. It might have been the alcohol or it might have been his long festering hatred for his brother’s rebellious flightiness. It might have even been the subtle protectiveness he felt over his dying friendship with Francis, but he had had enough. Without a second thought, his fist crossed the narrow distance between them and slammed into his brother’s nose, causing a sharp pain to shoot up his hand and wrist at the impact._

_His brother didn’t take it lightly. The moment he saw Arthur swinging for him, Alistair threw a punch into his brother’s gut causing Arthur to vomit at the impact._

_From there, they were just a blur of motion: kicking, punching, scratching, screaming slurs, as a riot broke out around them. The already stifling atmosphere of the bar became unbearable as others also broke into brawls, mugs smashing and liquor spilling to the floor in slippery, sticky puddles. The air filled with the nauseating smells of hops, piss, vomit, and blood before the two Kirkland brothers stumbled out into the open air, the shit infested waters of the Thames filling their nostrils as Arthur took his first deep breath since walking into the dimly lit establishment where he found his wayward brother._

_“I’m not going back with you,” swore Alistair where he stood, the cold night air ruffling his bright red hair._

_Arthur took a moment to process the pain he was in. There was a stinging across his face and breathing caused a sharp pain along his ribs. He twisted his ankle somewhere in their fight so putting any weight on it was painful. It would be a long walk home._

_“Why are you doing this?” groaned Arthur. “We were supposed to be in this together, we were supposed to fulfill our duties to our country and our family_ together. _”_

_“Don’t be stupid, Arthur. You never even knew where my ambitions were leading me and there you were playing little soldier boy for father,” spat Alistair. And with that, he walked off towards the docks._

_“Hey!” protested Arthur, getting up to his feet and wincing at the pain. He limped off after Alistair, but with his twisted ankle, Alistair easily got ahead of him. He almost lost him on the docks when he saw a second silhouette standing next to his brother’s shorter one. He snuck closer to get a look at who his brother was talking to._

_When he noticed that the tall stranger was dark, so dark he blended into the night like a shadow save for a shining glint of his teeth, Arthur was shocked. Shock morphed into terror taking in the rest of the man’s appearance, with dreadlocked and beaded hair, a cutlass and a pistol on his hip, and a musket on his back. He wore a tricorn which marked him off as a captain._

_Arthur had only seen glimpses of people like him before, always hanging off the executioner’s block with nooses around their necks, only this one was very much alive. Arthur was getting himself ready to jump in to help his older brother until he saw the man turn towards his dinghy… and Alistair followed willingly._

_Arthur couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He didn’t_ want _to believe what he was seeing._

_With nothing left to do, Arthur turned tail and went home. He found a way to sneak into the house without alerting the servants and snuck up to his room. He didn’t make it far before the Footman heard him wincing in pain in the stairs. The old man took pity on him and helped him to his room and left him to change and clean himself for bed._

_In the morning, he would answer to his father who would’ve already heard about his dalliances in the night. Arthur would be terrified of him and tell him everything he’d seen that night and everything Alistair told him. When he described the man Alistair disappeared with, his father’s eyes turned cold in silent fury._

_Only after Arthur signed up as a foot soldier with the British navy did he learn why his father had then disowned his first born son._

_The man Alistair has run away with was named Armado and he had become the most cunning pirate to sail Spanish waters. At that moment, Arthur swore he would make his brother pay for abandoning him and betraying their family name._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A “molly” is a pejorative British slang for an effeminate homosexual male. It was often used to refer to prostitutes specifically so given the time period, this insult from Alistair would have been particularly nasty.


	8. Last Resort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here I bring you a new chapter! It's short since there's only so much of Arthur's pining I can dick out in one go :|

**It has been ten long years since the boys have last met…**

Arthur’s chest swelled with pride the day he was finally appointed as a soldier in the English navy at the tender age of 16. Since Alistair had run away and Arthur had become the new heir to their family’s legacy, it had fallen onto him to be their father’s pride and show the courts exactly what sort of stuff Kirklands were made of. Without Alistair to share the burden, all of the filial duties fell on Arthur, attending all the events and shaking all their hands, courting all the daughters and flattering all the Generals. He was meant to become an outstanding member of English high society and after his father, it had become his duty to represent their family’s good name. Alistair was all but erased from their memories.

And Arthur was nowhere near ready to forget about his brother. For all his talk of dreams, he had become nothing more than a murdering pirate, following the orders of a former Venezuelan slave, sleeping and drinking his days away while he murdered and pillaged at night. Although Alistair’s actions could no longer taint their name, they still tainted Arthur’s heart. Alistair had become the skeleton in their family’s closet, the dirty little secret that he and his siblings were forbidden from ever mentioning. If word got out that the eldest born Kirkland had joined Armado’s crew, then their family reputation would be smeared and all the abuses Arthur suffered to please their father would be for nothing.

Two years after Alistair left, Arthur was finally appointed a position onboard the _Kingston_. For months, all they did was navigate around the island nation, teaching the new recruits the ropes before sending them off on any real mission. Arthur found this all tedious given that he had already learnt and practiced all of this with his father, the Admiral of the _Britannia_ , a much larger, more lethal and impressive warship.

But finally, the day came where they were given their first _real_ job and they had set sail. Although Arthur was too low ranking to know what their mission was, he had heard rumours travelling down the ranks that they were sailing to the New World and Arthur’s heart sank at the news. Just as he could never forget his brother’s betrayal, he could never forget the heartache he felt towards his childhood friend. He still kept his last letter, tucked away between the pages of _Beowulf_ , one of his favorite books. Francis’ last words to him were burned into his memory as much as the verses of the poem.

Arthur remembered just as sharply what Alistair had accused him of the last time he’d seen him and a cold chill seeped into his bones. Although drenched with hate and anger, those words are what spurred Arthur’s revelation that what he felt for his old friend was something more than simple friendship and that something more would nonetheless would remain unfulfilled.

Until now.

If Arthur can find Francis in the New World, he would make things right. The family couldn’t handle another scandal. If he never found the Frenchman again, so be it, but a part of Arthur wanted to prove Alistair wrong, to prove to himself that his feelings towards Francis were nothing like his brother implied. And for that, he needed to see him, talk to him.

He needed proper closure.

Quickly realizing that he was giving it too much thought, Arthur devoted himself to his work. His captain noticed the young Kirkland’s fervour, earning him his favour by the time they’d docked at the Hudson’s Bay.

Arthur knew as well as anyone that the world was much bigger than it seemed so he didn’t expect to find Francis here, especially not on British territory in the middle of New France. The last he’d seen of the Frenchman was down in Boston all those years ago, but that didn’t stop Arthur’s heart from racing as he touched ground once again for the first time in several months.

Soon after they landed, they were told they would be stationed at Hudson’s Bay to guard it against the French and Indians that would try to overthrow them and gain full control of the fur trade. It got under Arthur’s skin to be reduced to a glorified guard where he would have nothing better to do but think and fret over what he would do if he found his old friend again. He dreaded the possibility of finding Francis in the middle of a scuffle, fighting the British as his father had done before so many years ago, and Arthur couldn’t bear the thought of watching him die or seeing him amongst the dead. Or worse, what if Arthur was put in a position where he would have to kill him? He couldn’t imagine being capable of killing dearest friend he ever had in his short life. It was only he could only ever do as a last resort.

Nonetheless, he had a duty to his country and he would fulfill that duty to the best of his abilities. Armed with his musket and his bright red coat, he was sent to patrol the side of the Bay that opened into the neck of James’ Bay. They had an outpost on either side of the neck to keep track of every ship coming in or out. The _Kingston_ was now docked in James’ Bay for as long as Arthur’s captain had business there, and Arthur would be among the soldiers patrolling the outpost and its trade business.

Of course, what the captain neglected to mention is that it would be months before they were to sail to other lands again. For months, Arthur stood at that outpost, watching the comings and goings of various Englishmen and French hunters, as well as the innumerable dark-skinned natives that made him uncomfortable whenever they looked at him for too long. With every passing blond, Arthur thought for a moment that it was Francis before getting a closer look and seeing that this one had brown eyes, another had skin too dark, or this one’s nose was shaped wrong.

Everywhere, Arthur saw Francis and yet the Frenchman was nowhere to be seen. Every passing day made the distance between them that much more painful and Arthur couldn’t bear it anymore. He was going to find Francis, one way or another.


	9. Aftermath

Francis led a rather successful life if he dared say so himself. Once he was finally allowed to leave the confines of the school house in Boston, he and his brother both travelled back to New France to find the homestead their parents had built so many years ago. Although they held hope that their sisters would still be managing their farm, they were not surprised to find the house and barn abandoned and decrepit, the roof caving into their home and one side of the barn slanting unsteadily, threatening to fall over. In desperate need of money, the boys couldn’t afford the time it would take to rebuild their old homestead and pushing through their grief over their sisters, abandoned it as well, choosing to start a new life the only _other_ way their father taught them.

For years, Francis and Mathieu lived together, hunted together, and travelled across the vast forests of New France together, always coming back to sell the pelts they gathered by the Hudson’s Bay or the St. Lawrence, trading them for things they needed like new ammunition or clothes, steady boots, or just a good enough beer to get them through the night.

But Francis grew bored of their life and every time he traded at the Hudson’s Bay, he grew more bitter, angrier at the injustices he and his family endured at the hands of the English. As much as he wanted to do something about it, he didn’t know _what_ he could do without also jeopardizing his brother’s livelihood. If anything happened to his last remaining family, Francis would never forgive himself.

So he kept his bitterness to himself, quietly plotting any possible way he could single-handedly take down the British Empire, until Mathieu never came back one night after he went out to gather firewood. Francis had fallen asleep, expecting to wake up when Mathieu returned but when he woke up in the dead of night and realized that the fire had gone cold, a chilling dread filled Francis. He lit a lantern with what little oil they had left and had spent the rest of the night tracking his brother’s trail. By dawn, he had finally found him with his entrails gutted and devoured, blood melting the snow around him and creating a messy, mushy puddle. Bloody tracks lead away from him.

A starving fisher had gotten to him and Francis had failed to protect him as he promised to do so many years ago.

Francis spent that day digging a grave into the cold ground to bury his brother, digging deep into the clay crust of the earth and patting it down tight so no animals could desecrate him any further. He placed a makeshift mound of rocks so he could find him again and give him a proper burial in the spring.

By the time spring came and Francis had finally given Mathieu a proper catholic funeral, he had come up with his plan to get his revenge on the English. After all, hunting year-round wasn’t practical--he needed something to make money and kill time in the summers.

And what better way to do so than on the open seas? On one hot May day, Francis was wandering along the St Lawrence, burning what little savings he had made in the winter on wine, ale, and whores. He preferred to sit in the quieter taverns so he could properly savour his drunken state and a delightful conversation with the girl he bought, so when a gruff voice down the counter started retelling about his most recent encounter with pirates, Francis’ ears perked. Pirates had become something of a pest in the Caribbean waters, he heard, and the English had become desperate to eradicate them. But anytime they would cut down one unlawful fleet, another would spring in its place to mark their territory.

With a pat on her ass, Francis sent his whore off to fetch her fortune elsewhere to walk over to the sailors.

“Are their any of these pirates close by?” he asked, pretending to be worried for their safeties.

“You bet there are, and they’re not hard to find,”  gruffed the older man. “They’re always dirty, stinky, and they have a special gait to them from spending too much time at sea. If the man looks like his teeth have rotted out of his head, you betcha he’s a pirate with fucking scurvy.”

“But what if they’re just merchants?” he then asked.

“If you can’t tell the difference between an honest man and a murderer, then I think you have bigger problems than a pirate,” laughed the man mockingly, turning back to his drinking buddies to continue his story.

“Right. My apologies,” slurred Francis, bitterness creeping into his voice from being ridiculed. His night now tainted by the conversation, he walked out of the tavern to find another quiet place to stew in his misery.

As he walked past one ship after another, he kept his eyes open, watching the sailors carefully. He had never thought twice about them; they’ve always been in the background of the scenery in his life, blending in with the merchants and the people. He never had any particular need to notice them before.

He truly could not tell if these men were merchants or pirates, but his eyes were open to the possibilities now.

He saw those massive ships the British kept docked in James’ Bay. He knew they would fetch a nice fortune among pirates. All he would need to do is gather a band of Frenchmen like himself that wanted to stick it to the English as much as he did, and he knew there were plenty of those around these parts; certainly enough to man a battleship. And when you ask in the right places--such as a warm tavern along the St Lawrence--it was easy to find the right skilled labour for the job.

So soon after his seventeenth birthday, Francis had finally gathered a good-sized band of Frenchmen. Some were young and eager like him, others older and more experienced. Armed with their hunting rifles and with pelts to sell, they went to the Prince of Wales’ Fort trading post, farthest from the main British settlement, to sell their wares and begin their conquest. A handful of their men made a fuss at the post, the rest of them snuck up to a Man-O-War battleship that had been docked along the edge of the bay for weeks now. They had memorized the changing of the guards and knew when it would be most practical to impose themselves on their unwelcomed pests invading their lands.

At the front of the line, Francis and his men boarded the ship, slaughtering the lot of them with their sabers and daggers, not wanting to alert other Englishmen nearby with tactless gunfire.

Once the ship was secured, the gang dressed in spare and unsoiled uniforms from the soldiers and set sail to dump their bodies in the middle of the Hudson’s Bay.  From there, they set sail for the open seas, to take down other British vessels they find, making their living off pillaging and piracy--and a handsome living they did make.

Francis found a sickening thrill in the new life he built: it was an altogether different sort of hunt on a much more massive scale then he could ever imagine as a child. When they saw the Union Jack flapping about in the wind, they would let down their own flags, masquerading as a British vessel and all too easily, they would conquer and slaughter another, his fleet increasing month by month and never running short of food or supplies. Like this, Francis convinced his new crew to follow him full-time, to set aside their lives of hardship hunting in the bitter North and instead seek glory in the uncharted waters separating the Old World and the New.

After a year, with some of his men homesick and missing their families, they finally returned home. Francis felt a strange sort of bitterness at the thought, remembering how his family was slaughtered before him, finding their overgrown, empty shell of a home and his brother’s mangled corpse. He felt nothing but hatred for New France and her English neighbours--both have taken everything he ever loved and poisoned it.

Still, he had a duty to his men. He would find a lovely young blond with whom to waste the days away until his crew would come back to him to set their sights on new conquests again.

When the boy in the crow’s nest announced land a-hoy, Francis gave the order to hoist the flag and for the men to change into their stolen uniforms. Docking in Hudson’s Bay under the guise of a British vessel wouldn’t be a problem so long as they remained outside James’ Bay, the most heavily guarded part of the waterfront. They anchored their ships just shy of Fort Rupert and they took turns heading out to the mainland in dinghies--they had to have at least one fluent English speaker on board their ships at all times, after all. Impersonating English soldiers would come with a heavy price.

Francis was among the last of them to head to the coast. If he could waste away this little excursion with a belly full of wine and a pretty girl (or two)  in his bed, then he would be satisfied.

* * *

Arthur was just about finishing his rounds at the top of Fort Rupert’s watch tower. He was scowling, irritated that his replacement was already late, causing his grumbling stomach to protest more fiercely than he would like. When his replacement finally did come, Arthur scuffed him upside the head before stalking off without a word, the other boy cursing at his back before Arthur slammed the door on him. 

With his musket across his back, Arthur crossed the walkway separating the watch tower and the officer’s quarters. He intended to cross it to get to the main gate and head to the barracks where he could finally have a bit of stew and get some sleep.

“You,” called a old man by the window, in the middle of a small entourage of older officers that Arthur quickly realized were captains in council with the admiral of his fleet.

Arthur slapped himself into attention. “Y-yes, sir!” he said, his stance, he realized, too stiff.

“A ship has anchored in James’ Bay and it’s crew is disembarking on our coast. Grab some boys and go investigate,” he ordered him dismissively.

Arthur wasn’t sure he heard right. “I’m sorry, admiral, but there are only English ships in the Bay,” he said. He just came from a shift on the watchtower, after all.

“This one has a tattered flag. I want you to go down there and find out _why_ these imbeciles haven’t replaced it yet. They might be pirates for all we know,” sneered the old man. “And don’t ever question my authority again, Kirkland.”

Arthur’s lip tightened at the implied threat. “Yes, sir,” he said with a customary bow, leaving the officer’s quarters. Once he was sure the officers were out of earshot, he grumbled to himself and shushed his empty, protesting stomach.

He was watching the same waters and he didn’t notice anything off about the ships anchored there. Still, he was able to acknowledge that he didn’t have his commander’s trained eye for such things. Arthur went down to the barracks he shared with a handful of other soldiers of his rank and told them of their mission, grabbing some dried meats to stuff down his gullet on the way to the coast.

And deep down, Arthur truly did hope that his commander was right about the pirates, if only to break the relentless monotony that his life as a soldier had become.


	10. Fathers and Sons

With the small group of soldiers Arthur gathered, they got into a dinghy in the dead of night and without a lantern to light their way, they paddled towards the Man-O-War with the tattered English Flag the admiral wanted them to investigate. Their goal was to approach the ship, climb up to the gallery’s open port holes, and listen for any suspicious persons. Arthur knew that if they were discovered, they would be hard-pressed to get away alive, even with the admiral’s suggestion of asking why they hoisted a flag that clearly needed repair.

The matter of it is that they were in a vulnerable position this way. If these are indeed just negligent English soldiers, then his time will have been wasted. If these were pirates, then there was no way they could get out of there alive if things turned ugly. They may get caught eventually, when the admiral realizes he’s missing a handful of low-ranking officers, but by then, the murderers might very well get away.

Arthur only hoped that if the latter were true, that the admiral at least expected him to report back in the morning and would be suspicious if Arthur didn’t come. He kept his fingers crossed in hopes that his commanding officer will do his due diligence on the matter.

God forbid that Braith be the one to represent the Kirkland family in future generations.

The closer they got to the suspicious ship, the more quietly they began to paddle, one man with an eyeglass trained on the ship to keep an eye out for lookouts that might spot them. If they were spotted, they could always pretend they’re doing spot checks for the generals at the coast and if they’re lucky and decent actors about it, they would get away with it.

Arthur only considered them safe (as safe as they can get) once they were adjacent to the ship, their dinghy floating just an arm’s length away from it. With a few hand signals to convey to his partners what he intended to do, Arthur climbed up the ladder that hung on the side of the ship. He did so carefully so the rope or his boots wouldn’t clang against the wooden sides of her belly, alerting the occupants of his presence. He climbed up slowly, aiming for a lit porthole that he could hang under and listen.

The closer he got, the more clearly he could hear voices. He couldn’t quite distinguish what they were saying so he climbed a little higher, growing more cautious with every rung he rose until it dawned on him as he listened in.

“Mais il pense vraiment qu’elle l’attendait comme si qu’à l’avais rien d’mieux à faire, maudit bâtard,” he heard one.

“Y’é-t-en amour, laisse-le faire,” groaned another with a sigh.

Arthur’s ears burned. He knew this certainly wasn’t English and that these weren’t  English soldiers. He tried his damnedest to remember what language this was for his report to the admiral, but he was distracted by an odd clenching pain in his chest. Feeling unsafe, he climbed back down, trying to figure out why this language got this reaction from him. He couldn’t remember feeling this sort of pain before.

Reaching the dinghy, he motioned for his companions to paddle back to shore. When they were a safe distance from the ship, he was able to calm himself enough to remember to tell the others that he would take care of it. He needed to recollect himself before he told anyone about his discovery. He sent the other boys back to the barracks to sleep, finally, promising them he’d tell the admiral in the morning.

Mainly, Arthur didn’t want to alert them and cause a panic at the fortress, because when he calmed himself enough to breathe and think clearly, he recognized the foreign tongue to be some mangled form of the French he had learn to read growing up, and a British warship manned by a French crew spelled bad news for them on so many levels, Arthur didn’t even know where to start. For one, he was sure now that it wasn’t pirates as his admiral suspected, but French rebels wanting to overthrow their delicate hold on the fur trade business at the Bay.

Arthur considered how he was going to report this to his admiral as he walked down the harbour, needing to get back to the officer’s quarters as soon as possible. He was deaf to the sounds of drunkards and dancers in the taverns along the coast, but he wasn’t blind. He weaved his way around them deftly with a purposeful stride, his musket gripped tightly in his hand behind his back both to keep people from bumping into the butt of it and to feel safer, but his step faltered when he sidestepped two old drunks and came face to face with the one person he never thought he’d see again.

His chest clenched painfully again when he got caught in a gaze with clear blue eyes. Oh. Oh, no. What did this mean?

“Francis,” he breathed before his mind even thought to recall his name.

The older blond almost seemed to grimace as recognition crossed his features, his eyes darkening as he glanced over Arthur’s red coat. Only then did Arthur notice the heavy-chested blond that practically seemed coiled around Francis with legs and arms tangled into him. A prostitute, by the looks of her dress barely covering her pink nipples and her skirt hiked up high enough to reveal a garter, which Francis seemed to have been in the middle of sliding off her, his long finger squeezed into the band.

In the middle of the street.

Arthur’s cheeks burned realizing what he was witnessing, embarrassed, but also feeling a tinge of something else, something foreign and dark he couldn’t recall experiencing before.

Francis’ eyes never left Arthur as he whispered something in the whore’s ear. She grinned and redressed herself, walking away with an exaggerated gait.

“Have we met before?” he asked, whatever French accent he once had now gone and replaced with a bostonian accent.

Arthur’s heart sank to his stomach. It was such an odd feeling, and he didn’t know why he felt it. “What d’you mean? It’s Arthur,” he said, mentally scolding himself for sounding so childish. “We were friends when we were children, back in Boston. I moved back to London but we wrote to each other.”

“Oh,” said Francis curtly, his eyes growing dark. “Well. Like father like son, I suppose,” he scoffed, his eyes trailing over the red uniform Arthur still wore since his shift on the watchtower.

Arthur frowned. “What, because I became a soldier? I didn’t have a choice, and you know it,” he snapped.

“Of course, just like I didn’t have a choice but to become a hunter like my father,” shrugged Francis, a bitterness reviving in him remembering the sight of their farmhouse desolate and abandoned with nowhere else to go.

“Y-you did?” asked Arthur, a little surprised. “I thought you wanted to be a baker. At least, that’s what you told me in the letter you sent me.”

“I said I lot of things in those letters,” sighed Francis, turning to walk away and waving a hand for Arthur to follow. Compelled somehow (and a little disgusted with himself by how easily so), Arthur complied and walked a short distance behind Francis.

“How is your brother? The lumber trade must be tough in the winter,” he said, trying to maintain a somewhat lively conversation with his old friend.

“Mathieu is dead,” said Francis, his tone more cold and emotionless than Arthur remembered it being.

“Oh… I’m so sorry for your loss,” he said sincerely.

“I fail to believe you but if it makes you feel any better,” sighed Francis, entering a tavern and heading straight for a back table--evidently familiar with this establishment from all those years ago when his brother’s death was still fresh in his mind. “And what brings you back to this wretched country?” asked Francis.

“My crew was stationed here for a little bit,” he said, sitting across from Francis.

“For what?” he continued.

“I wish I knew,” sighed Arthur. “Until I move up the ranks, it’s not worth telling me why we’re here. I just follow orders.”

“Of course. Doesn’t surprise me that you haven’t changed a bit,” snided Francis, remembering all too well how _obedient_ Arthur had always been towards his father.

Arthur’s cheeks burned. “Yes, well, after what happened to my brother, it’s a good thing I was so _obedient_ ,” he retorted.

“Oh? What happened?” asked Francis, suddenly curious.

“He ran away,” Arthur said simply, not wanting to give away the details. “And Father disowned him. I’m now the eldest son.”

“Your father abandoned his child for that?” scoffed Francis. “I have to admit, Arthur, that I’m with your brother on this one. If I were given a choice between having a family like yours or no family at all, I’d rather have no family.”

“And that’s exactly what you got, isn’t it?” mumbled Arthur under his breath, immediately regretting his words when he noticed Francis’ eyes darken again. “S-sorry… That was uncalled for.”

Francis grunted, calling a server over to order some wine.

“What about you?” asked Arthur. “What brings you to this part of the country? Do you hunt in the north?”

“I used to,” said Francis, realizing his slip up. “I just came here with old friends to let off some steam.”

“Kind of far from Montreal, isn’t it?” murmured Arthur.

“Kind of far from Boston, too,” he replied.

Arthur bit his lip. “Why did you tell me you didn’t want to be friends anymore in your last letter?” he asked suddenly, wishing he could know so he could finally have his closure.

“Because you’re English,” chuckled Francis.

“S-so?” stammered Arthur.

“So, your father is the reason my family was slaughtered, why my sisters disappeared and I can no longer find them and why my brother was put in a position to be killed by wild animals,” said Francis, that new bitter tone creeping in, setting Arthur’s nerves on fire.

Of course, Francis had always been a bit bitter about what happened to his family, but Arthur truly thought he had helped melt that animosity away.

The time apart clearly had been unkind to both of them.

“I’m sorry,” murmured Arthur sincerely.

When the waitress came, Francis poured a glass for himself but none for Arthur.

His stomach grumbled again, but he didn’t bring his money with him when he went to take his shift.

“Hm. It’s not like you personally killed my family, and you’re just a low-ranking officer,” shrugged Francis. “If anyone should be apologizing, it’s the Queen of England herself.”

“As much as I feel for you, Francis, I don’t think that goal is entirely realistic.”

“Nor is single-handedly taking down the entire British Empire,” chuckled Francis, being careful to keep his tone jovial as he let his dark ambitions to light.

Arthur faltered, an uneasy feeling creeping in. “And everyone in it?” he murmured.

“Nah. I’m sure many women and children were innocent,” sighed Francis. “But the men are all bastards.”

_Even me_ , thought Arthur. “Well… I should be getting to the barracks,” sighed Arthur, standing. “I have a report to give.”

“Oh?”

“Some Frenchmen stole an English ship,” he sighed, turning to leave. “What a bloody mess.”

“Oh, you mean _my_ ship,” chuckled Francis. “Don’t worry, they won’t cause any trouble.”

Arthur froze. For a moment, he felt his heart stop and his breath catch in his throat. “That’s… your ship?”

“Yes, but we’ll be gone by tomorrow,” promised Francis. “The boys just wanted a night with their wives and children. Not here to cause trouble. Unless you cause us trouble,” remarked Francis, his eyes lazily glancing over Arthur’s figure.

Arthur gulped. “Right. If you’re still there tomorrow evening… I’ll report it,” he said.

“That’s a good lad,” grinned Francis. “Come see me in the morning. We should grab a bite together when you’re not wearing that ugly thing.”

Arthur bit his lip, nodding. For the moment, everything seemed just like before between them and Arthur wanted to preserve it. He wanted his best friend back.

Even if it meant one tiny lie by omission.


	11. Blessings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s at this point that I would like to humbly remind everyone that this is an enemies-to-lovers fic.

As promised, Arthur went to meet Francis in a small cafe that morning before going in for his shift at the watchtower. Francis was already there, dressed in a light white cotton shirt that made him look immaculate compared to the dirty slacks and chemise he wore the night before at the taverns. He was sipping from a plain white cup with a plate containing a plain breakfast of bread and cheese.

“I was beginning to think you got cold feet,” drawled Francis when he saw Arthur approaching.

“Needed to sneak away from the mates,” he said, sitting down across from Francis. “Why did you call me here anyhow?”

“Well,” started Francis sheepishly, “it’s occurred to me yesterday that I may have ended our friendship a little prematurely. It was wrong of me to blame you for your country’s actions.”

Arthur was taken aback by this, giving Francis a cautiously hopeful glance.

“And if it’s not asking too much, perhaps we can be friends again?” continued the Frenchman, giving Arthur the softest glance the blond had ever seen on him.

“Oh… of course,” said Arthur meekly, hope springing childishly. “I mean, I don’t expect to stay here for very long and I know you said you leave today, but we could exchange letters again.”

“Of course,” smiled Francis. “That is what I meant. I wouldn’t dream of holding you back in your endeavours.”

“Where may I address them?”

“I have a little country home outside Montreal where I like to relax between hunting seasons. I will share the address with you,” he promised.

Arthur nodded. Having brought his money with him this time, he ordered himself a coffee and a light breakfast as well.

And the two talked. When an hour passed, it felt like no time had passed at all, and Arthur found himself having to rush back to the barracks and change for his shift. He had completely forgotten to report back to his admiral. Throughout their talks, Arthur couldn’t help feeling as though Francis was somehow abstaining himself from something but with the Frenchman gone, he didn’t give himself the chance to fret about it.

As promised, Francis’ ship was gone by evening. By then, the Admiral had already given him his punishment for disobeying and Arthur had told him that the ship’s captain had promised to change the flag. The lie haunted him through the night, worried he would be caught and dismissed from duty, bringing shame to his family.

But the lie was never brought to light.

As the years passed, Arthur made an example of himself, excelling in combat and demonstrating immense leadership among his barrack mates. The scuffle with his admiral forgotten in time, Arthur moved up in ranks. Looking back, he felt as though finding Francis again had come as a blessing and spiralled into one golden opportunity after another until by the tender, ripe age of 24, he was promoted to captain, leading his own ship in the Queen’s fleet.

He will never forget how it felt to board the _Cumberland_ for the first time, to walk through the doors of his quarters where a heavy wooden desk sat with an upholstered wingback armchair behind it, covered in a deep purple velvet and a cherry-stain wood frame carved with intricate florals--a gift from his father, Admiral Kirkland. Filled with pride, Arthur sat in the soft chair behind his sturdy desk and pulled out a quill, ink, and paper to write his first letter as captain.

 _‘Dear Francis_ ,’ he wrote, his heart beating wildly, making his blood sing through his veins, ‘ _I have great news that I would love nothing more than to share with you, my dearest friend.’_

_‘I have been promoted to Captain this month! I now command my own ship in my father’s fleet. She’s a beautiful ship, Francis. I can’t stop admiring her. I must say that ever since we crossed paths again, Fate has been very kind to me. Everyday, I count my blessings, and having you as a friend is always first on my list.’_

_‘I miss you dearly, old friend. Come visit me so you can see this marvel for yourself.’_

_‘Sincerely,_

_Arthur’_

* * *

Francis set the letter down on his desk, leaning back in his chair to consider the words he was reading.

Arthur was such a sweet man. It made Francis feel a little guilty for feeling nothing but inborn hatred towards him. He knew in his heart that if Arthur were not British, then they could be genuine friends.

But just as Fate had been generous to Arthur, she had been unkind to Francis.

Dipping his quill into ink, he wrote a letter back to Arthur, letting him know he would love to see his new ship and to come and see him at the Hudson’s Bay. The two of them were long overdue to see each other again.

His letter finished and dried, Francis called in one of his crew to deliver the letter to the post office on the coast and to tell the men to get ready to sail from St. Martin to Montreal. That night, he confessed his plan to his crew members.

Francis felt a bittersweet yearning when they finally arrived back in New France. They had long since taken down their British flag, since taking on the guise of a battleship repurposed into a merchant ship. It wasn’t all that hard to believe given how dangerous the open seas have become since pirates began running rampant.

Francis let his crew go to shore to rejoin their loved ones briefly, himself taking a carriage to Fort Rupert where he could reconnect with his old friend once again, all the while considering how to word his ‘proposition’ to Arthur.

This would be Francis’ first and _only_ opportunity to give him immunity for the crimes he and his crew have committed over the years and still continue to prosper, and thanks to their reunion in Fort Rupert, Francis had exactly the ammunition he needed to secure this opportunity if Arthur turned him down.

He found the old tavern they sat in before, but he didn’t go in. He leaned against the wall near the door, waiting for Arthur. He briefly wondered if he would look different than before or if he would still be the scrawny kid he’d always been. He should be in his mid-twenties by now and should have gained muscle after years of sailing. He had no idea how early he should be, or how long it might take for Arthur to be able to join him, but he wasn’t going to risk letting this slim opportunity slip away from him.

Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait too long. By noon, Francis found him in the crowd, walking towards the tavern where he waited. It gave him plenty of time to note the dark trench coat Arthur wore, no doubt having remembered not to wear his uniform around Francis. He admired the new width of Arthur’s shoulders. He wasn’t the scrawny child he knew years before after all, and Francis had to admit, he was flattered that Arthur decided to devote time to him so early in the day, but he wouldn’t say it out loud.

“Welcome back,” greeted Francis with a soft smile.

“I can’t tell you how much of a pleasure it is to see you again,” grinned Arthur. “But let’s not talk here. Come! We have business,” he said, just as soon turning to head back where he came from.

Taken aback, Francis followed. “You don’t have time for a little chat between old friends?” he pouted.

“Of course, but I wanted something more private,” said Arthur. “Besides, the primary purpose for us meeting again is so I can show off,” he joked.

Francis chuckled. “You seem to be doing well,” he commented as they walked to the docks.

“So do you,” replied Arthur. “I admit, I’ve never seen a hunter dress so garishly in my life.”

Francis’ smile twitched. Perhaps wearing his powder blue embroidered coat was a slip up on his part. “I’ve made a small profit for myself over the years,” he tried to explain.

“So you’ve been spending your hard-earned money on expensive clothes rather than women and rum? Admirable,” teased Arthur.

Francis scoffed. He didn’t comment, glad Arthur provided an explanation all on his own for how Francis came about his wealth. “I’m sure you can afford something better than that dusty thing with your new title,” he remarked.

Arthur shrugged. “I didn’t want to put you off.”

Another twitch in Francis’ smile.

“Don’t hold back on my behalf. I’m a big boy too, y’know,” he said playfully.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” grinned Arthur. “Besides, can’t hurt for you to be seen fraternizing with British officers around here.”

Another twitch.

“Of course, you’re no doubt right,” chuckled Francis, willing himself to still move forward despite the uneasy feeling in his gut.

They were walking down the dock. It was one of the bigger ones where battleships could dock directly on the coast, making boarding and unloading an easy task. Arthur lead them to a slightly smaller vessel--a two-storey rather than the three-storey ship Francis had stolen almost a decade ago. His skin crawled as he sensed every uniformed man lay eyes on him, the beautiful stranger, while Arthur walked about as though it was a second home for him.

Entering the ship, it was dark save for the sunlight pooling in from the portholes, and there were only a handful of soldiers on deck at the moment, but Arthur didn’t pay them any attention, walking with a confident stride towards the French-doored cabin at the back of the ship. Francis already knew what to expect, but for the time being, he still had to keep up his pretenses.

Walking into the captain’s quarters, Francis gasped. He was surprised by the blend of rustic with simple elegance, the chair behind the desk the obvious centrepiece of the room.

“She really is quite lovely,” he complimented, sitting in the chair across from Arthur’s.

“Thought you might like it,” smiled Arthur. “Although I couldn’t help noticing how uneasy you felt around the soldiers.”

Francis tried not to wince. He hoped he’d covered it well. “I suppose there’s no forgetting the past,” he said wistfully.

“But you put those memories aside for me,” thought Arthur aloud, his words leaving the air feeling heavy around them. Francis thought he might drown.

“I… felt compelled to,” he tried to explain.

“Oh?”

Francis fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve, feeling Arthur hovering behind him. He glanced back. “I must confess, I had an ulterior motive for coming here,” he said.

Arthur felt a blush creep across his cheeks. Embarrassed he stammered, “Well, out with it then,” and shut himself up realizing how brutish he sounded just then.

“I’ve come with a business proposition of sorts,” explained Francis, trying not to let Arthur’s tone get under his skin. This moment was too important for self-righteousness.

Arthur fell silent. He walked around the large desk to sit in his chair, placing his elbows against the desk to fold his hands under his chin. “Go on.”

Francis avoided looking directly at him. “I would like to offer my services to you,” he said.

Arthur raised a brow. “I don’t think I have any use for hunters in my crew,” he said.

“I’m afraid I haven’t hunted land mammals for many years now,” Francis said sheepishly. “I can assure you that I have made many connections over the years that would be quite valuable to you.”

Arthur furrowed his brows. “Francis, what are you talking about?” he demanded rather than ask, and once again, Francis resisted the urge to fight Arthur’s sense of authority. He was clearly born with it and it irked Francis to no end.

“Arthur, my old friend, you must have realized the last time we met that my business hasn’t been entirely honest,” he said, being careful to mask his gentle threat.

“The ship with the tattered flag,” he remembered.

“The _stolen_ ship with a tattered flag,” emphasized Francis. “Tell me, Arthur. What sort of people normally steal warships? _How_ do they steal warships?”

Arthur grit his teeth. He leaned back in his chair. “Are you blackmailing me?” he seethed.

“No, of course not,” said Francis with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Like I said: I would like to offer my services and my crew to you. They’re called ‘privateers,’ if I’m not mistaken.”

“You’re not,” said Arthur through grit teeth. “And, what, you thought our friendship would protect you from the possibility of me turning you in myself?”

“No, the blackmail is intended to protect me,” chuckled Francis.

“And what if I killed you?”

“My crew are loyal. They knew I was coming here with the intention of buying a contract with the British Empire. They know what to do if I do not return,” he said with a warning tone.

Arthur let out a frustrated breath. He stood to walk around to the windows that covered the back of his quarters, looking out into the dark sea. He pinched the bridge of his nose, his mind reeling and trying to find something to hold onto long enough to make a decision.

In the end, all Arthur could grasp to is the feeling of betrayal he felt for the second time in his life, but rather than run away as his brother did, Francis came to him. His childhood friend, a murdering pirate, had come to him for immunity from his crimes. The price he would pay if he refused him would label him a traitor, outcast from his family and a pariah to the society he gave his life to. It was a price he couldn’t afford, not if he was going to bring his brother to justice. And besides, one of his first jobs from the admiral was to track down pirates that have been pillaging the colonies in the south and if what Francis said was true, then his resources and connections would be a great asset.

“I have conditions,” he said with a sigh, turning to face Francis. The older man finally looking him in the eye for the first time since they reunited, as though they were somehow on equal ground now.

“Of course,” said Francis, a genuine smile crossing his lips and with a fresh glint in his eye.


	12. Better Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I come back from the dead to bring you another chapter. Expect another one next week.
> 
> And please do not hesitate to let me know what you think! Your comments are always incredibly motivating ^^

Arthur couldn’t explain why he decided to include Francis on his latest mission. He told himself that  he wanted to see just what sort of potential a partnership between the two of them would have, but he felt deep down that this wasn’t completely true. He hasn’t officially commissioned Francis in a contract—Arthur hated being manipulated this way. He was postponing such a terrible political move by making as though he needed to test Francis’ meddle in the field.

Francis believed that the fact Arthur let him go all those years ago would serve as adequate ammunition against him, but Arthur knew better. There was no paperwork to prove Francis’ case and the admiral in charge had since died at sea. Francis’ blackmail would serve no other purpose than to hurt his reputation, but if Arthur handed him in himself, he could restore what little damage would be done anyhow.

The problem was that Arthur wasn’t sure he could do that to Francis. Although he resented Francis for his criminal background and for using Arthur, he still couldn’t shake the history the two had. It didn’t make any logical sense why Arthur would be so attached to the Frenchman and it frankly angered him.

With little much else to do, he was postponing his political suicide in favour of a little more time with his old friend, to try to see under his mask and potentially, just maybe, help that mask slip off and discover Francis’ true motives. Sailing down to the Gulf of Mexico provided plenty of time to do so, while simultaneously taking down a pirate fleet that had been spotted in the area. Admiral Kirkland feared that the growth of the fleet might affect resources coming from the New World and had sent Arthur to take care of the problem.

On the journey there, Francis remained aboard Arthur’s ship, just as a disposable group of Englishmen remained aboard Francis’ ship as a sort of security. Arthur’s trust in Francis was already limited, and it certainly didn’t extend to Fancis’ own men.

And by God, Arthur couldn’t stand the air of righteousness about him. The Frenchman was hostile and kept his arms crossed as though he felt like nothing more than a prisoner despite being allowed to roam freely. Anytime an English soldier remotely glanced his way, he sneered and looked ready to fight the man despite having left his weapons on board his own ship. To make matters worse, Francis seemed to be deliberately avoiding contact with him, which only made it all the more difficult for Arthur to trust him.

One day, Arthur had simply had enough. Francis was smoking his hand-rolled cigarettes— of which he seemed to have an unlimited supply of— on deck, and had been muttering to himself in French. Some of the soldiers approached Arthur, complaining that the Frenchman was trying to set some sort of curse on them as he was speaking in tongues. Arthur couldn’t blame them for thinking this as they were approaching the Bayou, notorious for its black witches, and his men were skittishly superstitious. With a sigh, he went above deck and found Francis speaking in his odd accented French—nothing else. “You’re making it awfully difficult to make me want to work with you in future,” snapped Arthur, approaching him.

“Pardon me, but your men are unpleasant themselves,” replied Francis curtly. “How am I expected to concentrate when they’re all ogling me like a cow.”

“They’re ogling you because you’re _French_ and a _pirate_. That would make anyone distrust you!”

“Then would you be so kind as to remind me why I am _here_ ,” replied Francis in a mock British accent.

Arthur was beginning to see red.

“Do you want your contract or not,” he snapped. “All I see is a grumbling, sad little pirate with nowhere else to go.”

Francis glared at him. “At least I’m not a red-coated thug with daddy issues,” he seethed. “After all, _Daddy_ gave you your mission, didn’t he? And now you’ve strung your new pet along to pla—”

“Would you just shut up!” snapped Arthur. “I am _trying_ to form an agreeable alliance, but if you continue to be difficult, then I’ll simply have to hand you over myself, consequences be damned! Have I made myself clear?”

Francis recoiled, his lips twisting into a sneer at the threat. “Yes, captain,” he said in a more pleasant tone. He threw his finished cigarette overboard and waited to be dismissed.

Arthur didn’t give him that courtesy. He turned around and went back below deck to his cabin, already feeling a tinge of regret for his words and praying that he wouldn’t have to keep that promise.

But no one heard a peep from Francis after that. The Frenchman had tucked himself away below deck with a lantern and some papers, his tail between his legs, and not to be seen again until he heard the familiar commotion of a ship readying for landing. Then, his papers now riddled in ink and bad English, he made his way to the captain’s cabin to hand them to him; his report, of sorts, containing everything he knew about the Venezuelan pirates they were currently hunting. He knocked on Arthur’s door with three sturdy strikes and waited patiently for the man to answer.

“What the fuck do you want?” barked Arthur through the door. “You have your orders!”

Francis bristled at his tone. “Pardon me, Sir, but you have not given me orders in two weeks,” he replied politely.

Arthur fell silent on the other side, taking a moment to recognize his voice and accent. His heart suddenly fluttered in his chest before he took a deep breath to calm himself. “Oh, Francis. Come in,” he invited, his voice calmer now.

Francis let himself in, his papers rolled up in a bundle under his arm. Having hidden himself away below deck, his beard had grown out, his hair was lacklustre and he appeared thinner than before, unaided by the fact he wasn’t wearing his coat. “Here is everything I know about Alonzo,” he said, setting the papers aside.

Arthur gave him a quizzical look. “You could’ve told me what you knew,” he said, picking up the report to glance over.

“I might’ve, but I decided to take your threats seriously,” he said, his tone flattened from the week he spent self-isolated.

Arthur looked at the papers curiously, soon giving up on reading the distorted English. “You could’ve written it in French,” he informed with a sigh. He wasn’t even aware Francis was literate in the first place. “Why don’t you go get yourself cleaned up and we’ll talk about it when you get back.”

Francis was taken aback by the soft tone Arthur was giving him. He couldn’t help feeling suspicious about it. Nonetheless, he went below deck to clean himself, his hair, shave, and change into clean clothes before going back to Arthur. By then, the ship was docking in Houston but Arthur was waiting patiently for him, some amber scotch poured out in two crystal glasses.

“So what do I need to know to make this mission run smoothly?” he asked, offering Francis a glass.

Francis sat across from him, taking a sip from the offered glass and found himself surprised by how smoothly it went down. “First of all, Alonzo owns several brothels across the Southern New World,” he informed. “He is likely to be holed up in one of them if he’s not at sea. I’m afraid this little port town you decided to stop at isn’t one of them.”

“I wouldn’t expect him in an English port town,” assured Arthur. “So how do I found out which brothel he’s in?”

“You don’t,” said Francis flatly. “But I probably could if you let me go down to one of them, ask around.”

A chill ran up Arthur’s spine at the thought of leaving Francis unsupervised. “You’re a fool if you think I’m letting you out of my sight just like that,” he said sharply. “Wherever you go, I go with you.”

Francis resisted the urge to sneer. “They can see you for what you are for miles,” he tried to explain calmly. “You would jeopardize the entire mission if you came along.”

“Nonsense,” stated Arthur, leaning back in his armchair. “I could make an excellent pirate if I wanted to. Tell me where this so-called brothel is and we will go investigate together.”

Francis truly did roll his eyes at his air of authority this time. “It’s exactly that sort of attitude that will get you killed,” he warned. “And don’t expect me to save you when you land yourself in trouble, alone, surrounded by murderers.”

“I’m well aware of the risks, frog. My decision is made.”

Francis sighed. “Then once the men have replenished their stocks and rested in proper beds, we can set sail for Havana,” he said, finishing his glass in one gulp, hardly looking forward to the daunting task of watching Arthur play pirate. “Now may I write a letter to my men to let them know what we’re planning?” he requested.

“Sure. But I insist on reading it first,” replied Arthur. “I’m sure you understand. Wouldn’t want you scheming something behind my back.”

Francis sighed again. “If you must.”

Arthur poured them both another drink, watching carefully as Francis wrote his letter in the light of the lantern, his cleaned and freshly shaving skin glowing in the soft light, framed with delicately waving blond hair. Then Arthur averted his gaze, embarrassed from the heat that unexpectedly began to pool under the table.


	13. Slightly Threatening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the original plan of following the same chapter titles and stuff from Dead Man's Prayer has been thrown out of the water. This whole Havana excursion is taking up a lot more story time than anticipated so after this chapter, the story will begin to diverge from parallels with Dead Man's Prayer. Still plenty of FrUK to come, though! Just a lot more... slow burning, I guess ^^'

When they finally neared Havana, they anchored their ships a few hours from the coast, side by side, in order to finalize their plan of action. Arthur, along with a small entourage for security, boarded Francis’ ship.

Francis led him below deck where he kept his wardrobe and other trinkets. He rummaged through a trunk for some older clothing that once belonged to himself and his brother when they were younger, since Arthur seemed smaller in width than him. “Change into this,” decided Francis, tossing him some of Mathieu’s dark slacks and a sweat-stained white chemise.

“I still don’t quite understand what’s wrong with my clothes,” stated Arthur, wrinkling his nose at the stained, outdated clothing before going behind a separating curtain to change.

“Please don’t tell me you actually expected to walk into a pirate’s brothel dressed like a nobleman,” sneered Francis. “They’d shoot you down before we can make it through the door. If you insist on coming with me, our best chances is for you to look the same as my lackeys.”

“They’d realize I’m not one of yours from my accent,” reminded Arthur, rolling his eyes behind the curtain.

“Not at all. The only reason I never kept Englishmen in my company before is because I absolutely loathe your kind.”

Arthur froze from behind the curtain, feeling something within him crack from such harsh words. “And yet you chose to become my acquaintance,” he said lightly to mask his hurt.

“I chose to make use of your soft heart. Do not mistake this as friendship.”

Arthur grit his teeth. “I’ll bear that in mind,” he grumbled, emerging from behind the curtain, dressed as a typical farm-hand.

Francis eyed him thoughtfully. He motioned with a dismissive hand for Arthur to sit in front of the vanity while he rummaged into a smaller chest, pulling out a scarf. Once Arthur was seated, Francis wrapped the scarf around his head like a bandana to cover his cleaned and well-kept hair. “Can’t let them think you can actually afford a barber,” he said mockingly, pulling out his tray of cosmetics.

Arthur eyed the various powders and tints. “Is that really necessary?” he asked, exasperated.

“Since you insist on bathing regularly, yes,” said Francis, intending to make Arthur look as rugged as he ought to for a pirate.

Arthur sat as still as possible while Francis worked, disliking the poking and painting from his brow down to his collarbone, but he tolerated it. Francis even went so far as to paint false tattoos on his chest.

“There. Now you look almost believable,” grinned Francis, proud of his work.

Arthur rolled his eyes. “But what’s our _plan_?” he asked impatiently.

“The plan is that I talk and you listen,” stated Francis in a way that left no room for negotiation, not even from the Admiral himself. “I won’t risk you fucking this up and putting _my_ life in danger.”

“What makes you think I’ll be the one putting _you_ in danger,” retorted Arthur.

“Because you have absolutely no idea what pirates are outside a courtroom,” spat Francis. “You have no concept of _why_ anyone becomes a criminal and absolutely no desire to consider them as anything more than seafaring animals. If it had remotely occurred to the monarchies of the old world to address the underlying issues than piracy would never have become such a clandestine career for so many of us.”

Arthur fell silent at his outburst. Of course he realized he had no way of actually understanding pirates but he also didn’t feel it was relevant: they were criminals that harmed too many innocent people and they needed to be stopped.

Still, he wasn’t about to say this to a potential ally against pirates, much less a childhood friend.

“You’re right, Francis,” said Arthur calmly. “I need you if I wish to succeed against the worst of them. Will you help me stop Alonzo?”

Francis felt heat rush to his cheeks at the unexpected admission. “That’s why we’re here,” he said dismissively, giving Arthur the finishing touches to his appearance. “Give me a moment to change and we can finish our journey to the coast.”

Arthur nodded, getting out of his chair to give Francis the room. On his way out, he caught a glimpse of himself in the standing mirror by the door, seeing the darkened, tinted complexion Francis had given him. His features appeared sharper, more brutish, more _masculine_ somehow. He made a mental note to applaud Francis’ work when this was over.

Francis emerged from his room dressed much the same as usual, although he switched his good coat for his sailing coat.

“Come on, then. Your fleet will remain anchored here while my ship will sail to the port. Your men should remain below deck,” he instructed as they went above deck.

Within an hour, they were on course. Arthur was weary and nervous, feeling as though he was putting his men and himself at risk like this and he hoped his years of military training would be enough to protect him from treason from the French corsairs.

This was by far the riskiest and most terrifying thing he’d ever done in his young life.

At the same time, he felt exhilarated, blood and adrenaline coursing through his veins.

If this mission worked out well, Arthur could actually see them working together in future, albeit with cautious optimism.

Once docked at the port in Havana, the sun was already setting, making their timing perfect for their intended plan of action. The Spaniards were waking from their afternoon naps and beginning to mill about between taverns and bars for food, alcohol, and easy sex. It was easy to see how Alonzo had made a little haven for himself on this tropical island.

As they ventured deeper on the island and farther from the safety of their ship and crews, Arthur grew increasingly nervous. It wasn’t as though he was inexperienced in combat—he had received more than enough training thanks to his father’s thoroughness, but going undercover was an entirely new experience, nevermind with someone he couldn’t trust farther than he could throw a dart.

Arthur’s stomach didn’t settle any better when the two of them walked past a man doubled over, vomiting a dark, putrid liquid. Arthur grimaced, trying not to breathe it in but it was to no avail—Francis turned into the building next door.

“Remember to shut up,” Francis warned him, out of earshot of other patrons. Arthur bit back a retort, not confident enough in his current disguise to talk back just yet.

The room appeared luscious in an exotic sort of way, typical of tropical whore houses. Colourful fabric draped from door frames in place of doors so moans and groans and screams and shrieks rang through the rooms freely.

It made Arthur uncomfortable and he wasn’t sure what to make of the fact that Francis seemed completely at ease in this place.

Within a moment, a mostly nude young woman approached them. “And how may we pleasure you best tonight, gentlemen?” she asked them in heavily accented English.

“I’m here to speak with Alonzo about a business opportunity,” Francis said smoothly, a gentle grin crossing his lips in a way Arthur could only describe as charming.

The young woman seemed caught off guard by this and her soft smile fell. “And who is asking?” she asked politely, but not enough to hide her unease.

“Tell him that a man of good faith has come,” he said, maintaining his charm.

She was confused by his words but nonetheless, she motioned for them to stay put and went upstairs briefly. Arthur could hear some scuffling upstairs through all the noises, even hearing glass shattering in one of the rooms before the young girl came back, looking frightened.

“The master will see you now,” she said in a rushed tone before skipping lightly but quickly to an occupied room. Arthur could distantly hear a gruff voice shouting a surprised ‘what the _fuck_ ’ at her intrusion, but he didn’t know what came after as he and Francis quickly made their way upstairs.

The stairs went up to a landing before turning abruptly to continue up to the second floor, large wooden double doors slightly ajar with two meatheaded men guarding it. He followed closely by Francis into the large room, decorated even more luxurious than the floor below with beds, cushions, and sofas filling most of the space. It was a place fit for massive orgies, save for the raised area where a desk and three armchairs sat by the large tinted glass window that let light seep through in a mosaic of purples, oranges, yellows, and blues. A dark-skinned man was standing behind it, clearly annoyed by their unappointed visit. Francis gave him a polite bow and motioned for Arthur to do the same, although the Englishman was already prepared to follow Francis’ suit.

The dark-skinned man eyed Francis and Arthur. “That was a tasteless joke, Bonnefoy,” frowned the man in a Spanish accent. “And who the fuck is this pale-ass mother fuck.”

“He’s just one of my sailors. It’s his first time playing with toys,” played Francis. “And you know I only want the best for my boys, Alonzo.”

Arthur froze at the name drop. From Francis’ intel, he had the impression that Alonzo would be in one of several countries, if not at sea, so unless Francis lied about where Alonzo would be, the chances of finding him here were so slim. And now here Arthur stood in this ridiculous disguise, with a corsair he couldn’t trust by his side, his target before him, and a flock of thugs in every corner awaiting his orders while Arthur’s own crew remained miles away at sea. It made Arthur feel incredibly vulnerable and stupid for trusting Francis this much.

Alonzo quirked a brow as he looked Arthur up and down. “He seems to have simple taste,” he commented. Hearing this, Arthur felt a bit insulted but he refused to let that show, not when his life and mission were hanging on the line. “I assume you will pay handsomely as usual?” Alonzo asked, turning back to Francis.

“Of course,” grinned Francis, walking around the desk to wrap an arm around Alonzo’s shoulders in a show of camaraderie. “I think he would like Mary. She’s exactly the sort of girl he would’ve married had he stayed home.”

Alonzo nodded his head slowly from side to side in thought before nodding, his lips twisted in a ‘why not’ sort of expression. He motioned for one of his men to the side to come forward, then made a dismissive motion with his wrist for them to leave.

Dumbfounded, Arthur was led out by the large man, going back downstairs while Francis stayed behind with their target. Arthur couldn’t help thinking that Francis’ smirk looked particularly devilish but he wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction by losing his composure. No. He said he could make it good as a pirate. Remaining disguised in this putrid nest of Satan spawn was going to be his way of proving it.

Arthur was led to one of the few rooms with a door. The large man opened it, revealing several girls without clients, cleaning and preparing themselves for their next clients. “Mary,” he called in a deep, booming voice. A shy looking girl with waist-length blonde waves and milky skin stepped forward, wearing an elegant but simple dress. The giant motioned towards Arthur and then led Arthur to a curtained off room with a red silk bed and deep wood furnishings, colourful pillows strewn everywhere.

And then the large man left as the blond girl came in, closing the curtain behind her. Before she turned to face him, she brushed the soft fabric from her shoulders, letting her dress fall to the floor and revealing a series of straight and curved scars down her shoulders to her hips, taking the form of white and pink feathery wings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, that last part was ripped off straight from Orphan Black. Except for her appearance. Picture a dainty Joan of Arc instead.


	14. Hot Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter is a bad pun.

Arthur stood dumbfounded at the sight of her, made speechless by the markings covering her back. Mary slowly turned to face him, graceful as a dove as she approached him, now nude. As she stepped closer, Arthur noticed pale freckles dotting her shoulders and the bridge of her nose and he thought they made her look all the more angelic.

“I, uh,” Arthur stumbled back at the edge of the bed as she got closer, “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I shouldn’t b-be here.” She pushed him down on his back on the bed and his mind just about went blank.

“So you’re an English boy,” she teased softly, her hips shifting so that her mound rubbed against his— _oh, god_ , he thought, reaching for her hips to pull her off him.

But she was stronger than she looked.

Seeing what he was trying to do, she frowned down at him. “Am I not attractive?” she asked, in a quiet, mousy voice, genuinely looking saddened by his rejection.

“Oh, darling, you really are beautiful, but I mean it when I say I shouldn’t be here,” he explained apologetically.

“But I want to pleasure you,” she whined, leaning down to begin kissing at his chest.

“No no no, you don’t want that,” he stuttered, using his hips and legs this time to roll her onto her back with himself on top.

She gave him a surprised look. “Oh, you wanted to be on top! That’s perfectly fine with me,” she purred, her legs wrapping around his hips as her fingers worked around his slacks, loosening them.

 _Why is this girl so damn strong!_ he thought in shock as he tried to pull himself off her, unconsciously giving her better access to his front, making it easier for her to pull down his pants and reveal him to her. His face turned red. “You’re very quick with your hands,” he stammered in compliment. “But I need to go.”

“Please don’t go,” she whined cutely. “You’re the most gentle man that’s been in my bed in _months_.”

Arthur blushed even deeper, unsure if he should be offended or flattered.

“I’ll be your gentlest client ever because I am not having sex with you,” he said, trying once against to break free.

This time, she cast him an angry glare. “What an insult,” she said, pushing him off her, and since they were still so close to the edge of the bed, Arthur fell clean off, yelping as he landed hard on his ass.

“I-I’ll still pay you!” he promised, wanting to appease her. “Raincheck! We can have sex next time! Just not right now.”

“Get out!” she shrieked, tears welling in her eyes. “I never want to see you ever again, you molly!”

Arthur felt a familiar sting at the insult, reminding him of all the times school boys have called him the same, never understanding why. Without another word, he scrambled to his feet and left the room, hoping that no thugs heard her screaming.

* * *

“Alonzo,” chimed Francis with a smile, giving the Cuban’s shoulder a squeeze. “It’s been too long. Let’s catch up.”

Alonzo grunted, brushing the Frenchman’s hairy hand off his shoulder to get a bottle of rum and two glasses that made Francis miss Arthur’s polished crystal ones. He poured them both drinks, handing one to Francis before sitting down. “You’ve been making a name for yourself lately in the White North,” remarked Alonzo. “The French are particularly not a fan of your handiwork.”

“I happen to be better at making money off their pelts than they are,” he shrugged. “But, my friend, you have been very naughty lately, haven’t you?” he teased. “I heard your men ransacked one of the Spanish Queen’s ships.”

“She won’t miss the gold,” he chuckled.

Francis hummed in thought, sipping at the strong liquor before saying, “I’m sure you’ve hidden it somewhere safe. Wouldn’t want the wrong people to get their hands on it.”

“Of course,” said Alonzo, his eyes remaining fixed on Francis. He hasn’t touched his drink yet.

“I could offer my assistance in keeping it safe,” smiled Francis. “That’s what friends are for, after all.”

“How generous of you,” hummed Alonzo, his brow cocking. “But I have more than enough men to handle my treasures.”

Francis almost missed the slight creak in the floorboards behind him. With a split second thought, he sprang from his armchair only to come face to face with two thugs, both much bigger and stronger than him.

“Alonzo, I’m hurt,” whined Francis, feeling cornered between the three large Cubans.

“Don’t be. Should’ve realized you were a double-crossing snake a long time ago,” replied Alonzo. “Never thought you’d sell your soul to those islander demons, though.”

Francis paled. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about that scrawny brat you brought in here. Thought I wouldn’t recognize an Englishman if I saw one? Fucker even walks like he shits gold.”

Francis scowled. Of course Arthur couldn’t pass off as anything less. “Well then. You can have him if you let me go,” he promised.

Alonzo snorted. He gave a wave of his hands and the other two quickly pounced on Francis. His first thought was to throw what was left of the drink in one of them’s face, another thought to slip under the other’s arm as he swung his fist at him, but he was only caught around the waist.

“Let me go, you ape!” snapped Francis, fearing for his life for the first time in a long time.

Francis was thrown back into his armchair, his arms soon bound against the armrests. Alonzo simply watched it all, pulling a small blade from his coat. “I think I deserve a little fun,” he slurred sadistically, walking around the desk. He walked behind Francis, dragging the flat side of his blade along his cheekbone. “I always thought you were too pretty for our line of work.”

Francis gulped quietly, gritting his teeth as he kept his eyes stubbornly ahead. The Cubans’ gaze felt heavy against the back of his head, but after everything he’s suffered in life, it would take more than this to crack him.

“Nothing to say?” hummed Alonzo. “That’s all right. You wouldn’t be the first slimy piece of shit to walk in here. Just gotta cut you all out one by o—”

One of the double doors swung open, interrupting him. With his blade still flush with Francis’ cheek, he and his thugs all glanced up to see their intruder.

Arthur froze in the doorway, taking in the scene before him.

“Bloody _fucking_ hell,” he grumbled, pulling out a dagger he kept sheathed at his back just as the two large men charged at him.

They were big, but Arthur was _fast_. Adjusting the grip on his dagger, he slipped behind one of the large Cubans, severing the tendons behind the knee and using his body as a shield from the other before catching his arm and snapping it back hard and fast enough to break his elbow. The two incapacitated, he only had Alonzo left to worry about, but the sight of Francis tied to that chair, with a blade to his cheek…

“Serves you right for backstabbing me,” snapped Arthur. He knew it was compulsive of him, but he didn’t think he’d have another opportunity to vent after this moment.

Francis grimaced in distaste. “You can scold me later, you twat,” he snapped back.

Arthur scoffed, adjusting his grip on his dagger again. He could hear the two thugs behind him dragging themselves to the door to mend themselves, blood pooling along their path. It allowed him to worry only about Alonzo. “And what’s _your_ problem with him? Did he fuck your daughters or something?”

The man laughed. “Nothing so simple,” he chuckled. “I’m afraid Mr Bonnefoy has committed an unforgivable crime by allying himself with you and your kind. The punishment in this case would normally be exile at sea, but we’ll have to settle for something quicker in this case. I’m not known for my patience.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. Tired of small talk, he calculated his best course of action and deciding that Francis didn’t need his face as much as he thought he did, Arthur ignored the fact that Alonzo held a blade to his cheek and sprang forward, his own blade tucked close as he loomed around front of Francis, forcing the other man to dodge by shifting behind. He saw red from the corner of his eye, but not enough to feel worried, and drew his blade upwards in an uppercut to pierce Alonzo’s jaw. The Cuban deflected with his arm, burying Arthur’s blade through his forearm. Arthur saw a flash of light glinting off metal to the side and quickly raised his own arm to catch the other man’s wrist in a stalemate where brute force would vanquish.

But Arthur didn’t have brute force on his side—he had _strategy._ With his blade still buried in Alonzo’s arm, he yanked hard and suddenly downward, jolting the other man into falling forward only to hit his head on Arthur’s raised knee, dropping his knife. With Alonzo down, Arthur took the liberty to kneel down to punch him, hard, over and over again, only satisfied enough to stop when he heard bone crunching under his knuckles and the dark man was left unrecognizable under him. “You’re coming with me,” spat Arthur, rising with his blade held to Francis’ throat now. Now that the adrenaline was easing, he could see that Francis suffered a gash along his cheekbone and that a light trail of blood curtained from it. “And no funny business from you. If you want to live, you will do exactly as I say.”

Francis gazed at Arthur, wide-eyed with a mixture of fear and amazement. He thought to himself that Arthur must have known that acting rashly would put Francis’ life in danger, and he couldn’t believe that Arthur actually ignored the fact that Alonzo held him bound at knife-point just to capture his target. He was beginning to reevaluate where he stood in Arthur’s opinion.

Francis slowly dropped his head in a nod. Arthur wiped the blood off his blade with Alonzo’s clothes, then stripped the man of his shirt to bind his stabbed arm so he wouldn’t bleed everywhere as he was taken to the ship. Only then did he release Francis.

“Carry him,” he ordered the Frenchman. “If any of his cronies come to his rescue, I’ll fight them off, not you.”

Francis simply nodded again. He thought he would’ve gotten more of a tongue lashing from the Englishman but he wasn’t ready to let his guard down. With his face still bleeding, he lifted the Cuban onto his shoulder to carry him down the stairs with Arthur in front of them, his back to them with a confidence that Francis couldn’t understand.

They received a lot of frightened stares as they walked out of the brothel, the thugs nowhere to be seen. Francis figured they must have jumped ship when they saw their captain go down. Either that, or they’re regrouping elsewhere for revenge and that thought sent a chill down his spine. Still, as they walked down the streets of Havana, they were the most conspicuous trio and earned a lot of curious glares. Francis realized that Arthur made his spectacle on purpose when he saw people parting down the street to make way for them: they did not want to stand in the way of the man that took down their biggest crime lord.

As they embarked the ship, Arthur still hadn’t said anything to Francis. He walked over to Francis’ co-captain, and in his perfectly accented Parisian French, ordered him to set sail for the rest of their fleet. Dumbfounded, Jacques turned to Francis for some sort of confirmation for these orders, and Francis could only nod in confirmation. With that simple gesture, the ship exploded with activity as everyone rushed to get back out to sea to the English fleet that awaited them.

Two Frenchman approached Francis to take the unconscious Cuban off his hands, dragging him to the main mast to tie him down. Francis silently made his way to his cabin, like a ghost treading the ship.

He filled a bucket to bring to his cabin and clean up his face and try to reduce the damage done, but he found Arthur already sitting there with a bucket and clean cloth, as well as medical supplies that Francis didn’t recognize.

“Sit,” he said, sounding both soft and commanding in a way Francis had never heard before. Francis bit back his pride and did as told, sitting in front of his vanity where Arthur began to clean his wound. Pressing the cloth to it, he reached for the alcohol to disinfect it, pouring a generous dose over the cloth. When the cold liquid hit his open wound, Francis gasped from the sharp pain it caused and would’ve jumped from his seat, but Arthur held him down with a firm grip on his shoulder.

“Explain yourself,” he said, his tone still low, but Francis somehow detected some fury in his voice. “You wanted to double cross me, huh?”

“N-no,” mumbled Francis. “I just.. I just wanted to find out where he kept his treasures.”

“Don’t try to pretend like I didn’t see that smug look on your face as I was pulled out of the room,” said Arthur, his voice sharp and warning. He dipped his surgical needle into Francis’ skin, weaving stitches into place and tying them expertly, albeit out of practice.

“I had to play a part too,” grumbled Francis, keeping his eyes away from his reflection, grossed out by the sight of his skin being pulled from his cheek like that. “I needed Alonzo to believe I was his friend.”

“My _point_ , Francis, is that Alonzo’s treasure was _not_ our objective,” stated Arthur sternly. “So not only did you lie to me about where Alonzo was in the first place, you lied about your motives for working with me. Give me _one good reason_ why I shouldn’t turn you in along with him?”

Francis grimaced at him. “First of all, you’re still on _my_ ship, surrounded by _my_ sailors,” he said icily.

“And I have a needle sticking into your face,” interrupted Arthur, tying another stitch and clipping the string with his surgical scissors.

Francis scowled. “You’re the reason my cover was blown,” he spat.

“I’m also the reason you’re still alive,” he reminded, dipping his needle in for one last stitch. “If I were you, I’d at least be grateful for that much instead of being a backstabbing twit.”

“Arthur,” called Francis, his tone suddenly soft, almost pleading. He reached up, his hand gripping Mathieu’s chemise that Arthur still wore and was now stained with blood, the gesture unusually familiar. “I have no intentions of betraying you. If that were what I wanted, I had countless opportunities. Please believe me.”

Arthur’s eyes glistened. He tied the last stitch, putting his surgical equipment away to pretend like he was thinking seriously. “You have one last chance to earn my trust,” he replied quietly. “If you’re anything less than honest with me, even if you’re just _omitting_ , then you can forget about your contract.” He deliberately neglected to mention that the executioner’s block would come next if that happened. Somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to commit to the threat. “Understood?”

Francis nodded solemnly. He finally lifted his gaze to the enclosed gash along his cheek, observing the handiwork carefully. A ‘thank you’ hung from the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it, to bridge whatever gap still existed in their blooming partnership. Somehow, that leap seemed far too terrifying.

“Th-thank… you.” The last word hung quietly when he turned and realized he was alone in his cabin and that Arthur could not hear him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if you find any inaccuracies either in the story or history. I didn't exactly extensively research Cuban piracy or brothels.
> 
> Happy reading!


	15. Love Lost, Love Won

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finally back to a point where I can recycle Dead Man's Prayer titles lol (sort of)
> 
> Anyway, here's a new chapter! And I promise the slow burn is nearing it's end... :$

They didn’t speak throughout their voyage back to Boston. Francis sailed aboard Arthur’s ship but none of the British soldiers sailed on the French warship. It set him on edge to give Arthur such an advantage but he didn’t dare get in his way—not anymore.

The two avoided each other. Francis didn’t do so intentionally but he could sense that Arthur did not want to be near him and Francis respected this, giving him time to think, no matter how much he wanted to get on Arthur’s good side again. His life depended on Arthur’s good side… so until an opportunity would present itself, waiting was all he could do.

With every passing day that they didn’t speak to each other, Francis grew more and more nervous. Without a chance to somehow redeem himself, his contract may be lost entirely…

***

Arthur didn’t trust himself around Francis anymore. If it had been anyone else double crossing him like that, the man would already be dead and the fact that all Francis got from it was a scolding was more than enough testimony to how soft he was towards him.

He always knew he felt some sort of weakness for Francis, but this last excursion simply took it too far.

He was grateful that Francis made it easy to avoid him. It gave him plenty of time to think about what to do. Logically, it meant handing Francis and his crew over, seeing as he betrayed him, but Arthur couldn’t bring himself to execute him… He couldn’t bear the thought of being the cause of Francis’ death.

So he came to an alternative decision.

When they finally reached Fort Rupert on the edges of James’ Bay, Arthur found Francis smoking quietly off the side of the ship and motioned for him to follow. He could see with a pang that Francis hadn’t slept much considering the dark bags under his eyes and his unkempt appearance. He must have also realized for himself that the corsairs broke from their fleet near Montreal, leaving Francis alone and at his mercy for the last leg of their trip. Arthur couldn’t understand why his men would abandon him so easily, but he brushed it off as just being a part of their nature to form fairweather bonds.

“Come with me,” Arthur stated, turning to lead Francis towards the boardwalk.

Francis glanced at him a moment too long, clearly weighing it in his mind before following. Around them, the British were busy properly docking the ship and bringing Alonzo to the admiral. He went unnoticed as he followed Arthur off the ship, but rather than head towards the city, Arthur lead him away from it, towards the docks where the fishermen gather their wares for transport. Since it was midday, the place was mostly deserted... and private.

“I’ve come to a decision regarding our… arrangement,” said Arthur coolly, finally stopping somewhere along the docks and turning to face Francis.

 _How political of him…,_ thought Francis, but at the same time, his nervousness was reaching its highest point, causing his heart to pound wildly in his chest. This far out, maybe he could overtake Arthur on his own after all in the worst case scenario…

“I will give you one last chance to decide whether we can work together,” continued Arthur. “Since working together in a literal sense was such a horrendous disaster, we shall work separate cases from here on out.”

Francis felt a sting at his words, but also a huge wave of relief washed over him, hearing that Arthur didn’t intend on turning him in. “Can’t say it was _horrendous_. You did capture Alonzo and my intel was good.”

“Your intel was good, but having me sent into a prostitute’s room so you can sweet talk the target was unacceptable behaviour that put my life at risk,” replied Arthur sharply.

Francis chewed his cheek and looked away, expecting another scolding.

Arthur sighed. “If you wish to work recklessly, it’s no chip off my shoulder, but you’ll be using your own resources and your own men from now on. If you wish to receive a commission, then I need to know where you are at all times, and once the target is brought to me, _then_ you will be paid.”

“Then… I suppose it is for the best,” said Francis. “And for the sake of completeness, I should also know where you are at all times.”

Arthur’s cheeks burned slightly. “If I’m not here in Fort Rupert, then I’m at my home in Essex. The officers at the fort can forward the letters for you,” he murmured.

“Of course. For a moment, I almost forgot you’re a rich boy,” mumbled Francis, his eyes still averted.

Arthur rolled his eyes at him. “Get over it. Anyhow, I’m sure you can find your way back to your men from here, so this is where we part,” he informed, beginning to walk away.

Francis grumbled something under his breath, remaining still as Arthur walked around him to get back to his crew. “Hold on,” he remembered suddenly. “You owe me commission for helping you catch Alonzo!”

“You think I keep cash like that on me on my ship?” called Arthur over his shoulder. “If you want it, you’ll have to come to the fortress with me.”

Francis grit his teeth, turning to follow behind Arthur. At that moment, he was starkly reminded of how much he hated Englishmen and their pompousness.

* * *

Over the course of the several months that followed, Arthur kept his word and shared commissions with Francis, always mailing the contracts to his home in Montreal. Since winter had started creeping by, Francis was always home, preferring to hunt, still, after all these years, over seafaring. But anytime an envelope from Arthur came, he went back out to find his crew and his ship and they would set sail again. Arthur was mindful enough to keep his targets local to him, near New France, while Arthur ventured lower south to deal with the rogues near the Caribbeans. 

And true to his word, Arthur always informed Francis of when he would be returning to Fort Rupert so that Francis could claim his prize. Over time, Francis felt he could trust Arthur enough that he even began handing in the pirates to the English authorities without Arthur present and simply collected his bounty when Arthur would return. But in every occurence, Francis _only_ dealt with Arthur and Arthur was always the one to pay him. They would sit down together, discuss how the mission took place, have a scotch--which knowing Arthur, was always good quality in crystal glasses. Francis was developing some expensive tastes, thanks to him. Once it was getting late, Arthur would excuse himself and Francis would leave. With every meeting, their partnership grew more amicable. One might even say they were growing more trusting.

Although Arthur never brought up the fact that he saved him in that brothel months earlier, Francis never forgot. He remembered every time he would set eyes on Arthur once again, remembering how his lithe body could contain such fluidity and skill in combat, the cold, calculated way he fought. Francis once caught himself thinking it was admirable. All the more so that Arthur never once sought praise for it. It felt as though the Englishman had grown numb to killing, and it gave Francis a tinge of sadness every time he thought about it. It made him all the more grateful that Arthur was not so numb as to kill him as well, even when he had every right to.

It was because of this sadness that Francis one day felt bold enough to invite Arthur to his home in Montreal. It was still winter and there was still hunting to be done, but he would still be a while at sea so he offered that he come see him at home rather than go through the bother of sailing all around New France to get to the fortress. His heart sang when Arthur sent a letter confirming that he would come.

So he spent the next week making his little cottage as presentable as possible.

* * *

Arthur arrived in New England in early spring and took a horse to Francis’ home. He wondered what made him decide on this particular location, but he didn’t think it was worth looking into too much, so long as he wasn’t ambushed. 

Arriving at the location Francis specified, Arthur was glad to see that it seemed mainly deserted, crossing off the possibility of an ambush. Still, he was surprised by its quaintness and charm, and he certainly didn’t miss the pelts drying outside or the moose carcass hanging from the tree at the back. This was clearly a hunter’s lodge, and it was most likely Francis’ own private dwelling. Realizing this, Arthur’s cheeks burned slightly; he will get to see Francis in his most private side.

He tied his horse at the front and made his way to the front door but before he could knock, the door swung open and Francis’ tall, broader frame filled the entrance, dressed more modestly than Arthur was used to with his wavy hair pulled back in a low ponytail and his shirt collar open. “You took your sweet time coming,” he jested, turning to let Arthur inside, hiding the small grin that popped up seeing Arthur’s blushing face.

Arthur ignored his remark (and his grin) and followed Francis inside. It was hot—almost stifling—from the fire that blazed gloriously in its hearth. Francis had a few bowls of wild nuts and berries set out in hand-carved wooden bowls, as well as a hardwood cutting board laid out with cheeses and cold cut meats.

“Were you expecting more company?” murmured Arthur.

“Just you,” assured Francis, going into the pantry for some liquor. “But I thought I should make up for all the glasses of expensive whiskey you’ve shared with me in our meetings with something tasty. I’m not quite as well off as you, so the cheese was all I could manage,” he shrugged, setting two metal cups down and filling them with his own stash of homemade liquor. It tasted like shit, but it was perfect for warming your gut in the cold northern winters. For Arthur’s sake, he only gave him a teaspoon and filled the rest of his cup with water.

“You shouldn’t have,” murmured Arthur politely, but really thinking that Francis genuinely shouldn’t have.

“I’m not exactly an hour’s walk from the city,” reminded Francis. “And you must be starving after your long voyage. It’s just me out here now, so it’ll go to waste if I don’t share.”

Arthur felt a pang, suddenly remembering that in their youth, Francis had a large family that he was separated from. He made a mental note to ask about that. “I have your money,” he said, bringing them back to the main purpose of their visit. From inside his coat, he pulled out the pouch of coins for Francis, setting it on the table before reaching for the bowls of nuts and berries.

Francis nodded, grabbing the coins to put them away safely upstairs, leaving Arthur alone in the main room.

And boy, was it stifling. No wonder Francis was half-naked when he opened the door… Arthur wondered if he should dim the fire somehow by dousing it with water, but decided to shrug off his coat instead. It seemed like he would be here for a few hours at least…

When Francis returned, Arthur’s attention was roused back. “Is this where you spend your time when you’re not committing crimes at sea?” he asked curiously.

“I don’t steal anymore. Now, I only go out to sea when you give me a commission,” confessed Francis, his voice sounding more melancholic than Arthur anticipated.

“Oh? How come?” he asked.

“Well… I’ve been a hunter ever since the British left my brother and I to had to fend for ourselves. I needed money for the summer season as well and farming didn’t seemed like too much work with too little return, which is why I started piracy in the first place. But the money you give me is enough to sustain me through the summer, so I have no need for piracy,” he shrugged.

“Oh… about that,” murmured Arthur. “Where is Mathew?”

“His name is _Matthieu_ ,” replied Francis darkly.

“Y-yes, I’m sorry,” stammered Arthur. “How is he?”

“Dead.” Francis cast his glance down to his undiluted moonshine before downing it in one gulp and instantly regretting it, making a sour face and shaking slightly to get the strong taste to go down.

Arthur simply cast his eyes down. He somewhat felt partially responsible for it, even though he had no control over Matthieu’s fate. “I’m... I’m sorry, Francis,” he said with quiet sincerity. “Your family... it means so much to you—”

“And now they’re all gone,” Francis said flatly. “So there’s no sense in kicking yourself over it.”

Arthur nodded a little solemnly, looking into the little cup of spiked water in front of him.

“Tell me about them.”

“Hm?” hummed Francis.

“Tell me. About your family. What were they like?”

Francis gaze him a confused look. “Whatever for?”

“Well,” started Arthur sheepishly. “My own family… Well, I’ve had a fairly lonely upbringing to say the least. But you’re so attached to your family, it makes me wonder what it must be like to have a family that loves you for who you are rather than the strings you might pull in the future…”

Francis felt a pang in his chest. This must have been the most depressing thing he’d ever heard.

“I’m sure your parents love you,” he tried to console, unable to imagine a parent that _didn’t_ love their child.

“Given the violence we received for every minor infraction, or the fact that my brother was disowned _and_ erased from our family’s records, I fail to think so,” replied Arthur flatly.

“My god, that is the saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” mumbled Francis, before letting out a little sigh. “Well, all right. I had a brother and two sisters growing up, and we all lived on a little farm outside of Montreal…”

They stayed up until late in the night, comparing stories of their childhoods. Arthur learned that Francis had broken his arm falling out of a tree while he himself had broken his leg falling off his horse. He still had scars from the surgery they’d given him to fix this leg while Francis had simply had his arm bound between small wooden planks and left to chance to heal properly.

Arthur learned that while he’d been pampered with clothes, food, and an education, Francis had been pampered with love. The difference between their upbringings couldn’t be more stark and despite receiving everything he wanted and asked for, Arthur still felt an emptiness while Francis seemed happy to simply have been loved.

He wondered if he could someday feel loved like that as well. He decided that nothing in the world mattered more than to find that love and cherish it. Perhaps if he could find Alistair, they could both mend whatever holes their upbringings left in their hearts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As my beta said when she finished reviewing this chapter: "Awwwwww they finally reached high enough friend levels to unlock each others tragic backstory!"
> 
> Enjoy :)


	16. Brothers Worlds Apart, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was getting so long, that I had to split it into two parts…

The next morning, Arthur woke up disoriented with no memory of where he was or how much time had passed. He slowly came to his senses and realized fairly quickly that the sun was already up and bright and that the bed he lay in was scratchy with straw, had a fitted sheet that felt like burlap against his unblemished skin, and a heavy blanket of furs on top. His eyes stung for whatever reason but as he tried to crack them open more, he didn’t recognize the room he was in at all.

It looked like it might’ve been someone’s attic given that there were no walls and he could see the staircase leading down on the opposite side of the room. Two large seated windows were along the east and west walls, completely illuminating the spacious room. He could see a vanity and two dressers, although it seemed like they didn’t get much use given that clothes were strewn everywhere--some of which, he realized in horror, were his own.

Deciding to investigate further, he rolled out of the bed with a grunt. The moment his body became upright, the room spun around him in a distorted vertigo. He instantly recognized it as a symptom of a long night of drinking far too much, followed by a memory of drinking Francis’ homemade brews, which tasted nasty but were so damn strong--

He heard a grunt behind him and Arthur’s heart stopped. He slowly spun, his heart restarting only to beat wildly with panic as he saw the splayed out form of a man slightly larger than himself, pale, with a mane of blond, wavy locks.

Slowly, his booze-addled brain put the pieces together. Arthur went to Francis’ home. He drank too much. He woke up in Francis’ bed with the Frenchmen laying with him, seemingly _naked_ and _Oh my god, what the fuck did I do?_ thought Arthur.

He gently bit into his index finger to keep himself quiet. Ignoring the throbbing in his head, he snuck around the room to gather his clothes. Not finding the rest of his belongings, he hoped he had left them downstairs.

“Where’re you going?” slurred Francis from the bed. Arthur turned and saw that he was now watching him passively from where he lay.

Arthur felt the need to cover himself up somewhat but he didn’t bother staying quiet anymore. “I--I should go,” he stammered, regret gnawing at his insides.

Francis sighed from the bed and stretched out, like a cat, Arthur thought. He lifted himself up on all fours before slipping out of the bed-- _not_ naked, Arthur was glad to see, but made him wonder all the more what it was his memories blanked out.

“I’ll give you privacy,” said the Frenchman, grabbing trousers from the floor on his way downstairs, leaving Arthur completely alone in the large room.

Arthur took a moment to take deep breaths and calm himself. Now alone, he dressed himself appropriately and fixed his hair in the mirror by the vanity before going downstairs as well, feeling rushed to leave, to run away from his mistakes. Arthur knew that a relationship with Francis would be more than inappropriate, it would be damning! If anyone found out, his family would disown him as well, his commanders would discharge him dishonourably, and he would be left to wander the world as a begging vagrant with no skills marketable to the masses. If Arthur committed _that_ crime, then he couldn’t afford to let Francis live…

He didn’t trust him nearly enough to entrust his entire life to him.

As he came down the stairs, he smelt some eggs frying in fat and his stomach gurgled unpleasantly.

“God…,” he grumbled under his breath. As he reached the last step, he asked, “What happened last night?” Whatever mistake he made, it would need to be rectified sooner than later.

“You got drunk, started pissing all over my garden, and then passed out all over my perennials,” said Francis flatly, clearly displeased with the memory. “I had to drag you inside, and when I smelt the piss on your clothes, I wasn’t going to let you sleep in my house, stinking it up. I took your clothes off for you and put you to bed.”

Arthur’s cheeks burned in embarrassment. With his anxiety levelling, he pulled the front of his shirt up to smell for himself. There was just a faint hint of lavender and lemon. “What?”

“ _Imbécile_ , I washed your clothes after I put you to bed,” frowned Francis, dividing the egg scramble onto two plates, setting them on the table before going to get the milk jug from the icebox. “You’re much heavier than you look,” he mumbled under his breath.

An entirely different sort of heat warmed Arthur’s cheeks. “I’m sorry you went through so much trouble,” he murmured, shame mixing with embarrassment.

“My fault for assuming you could handle your liquor,” shrugged Francis, sitting down to eat and motioning for Arthur to do the same. “But I do want you out of my house after breakfast.”

“F--Fair enough.” Arthur stumbled to the chair, sitting down ungraciously. He glanced at the plate in front of him and properly saw eggs, green shallots, mushrooms, and peppers in the mix. “And… thank you. For everything,” he added, the words sounding foreign to his own ears, but feeling like they were appropriate.

“You can thank me by letting me come to your home so I can piss all over your roses,” scoffed Francis, digging into his eggs.

“Oh. Actually, I will be going home in the early summer. My father will be away to work in India, so I was planning on taking a brief holiday so I could finally have the place to myself. It’s probably the only time you’ll ever be able to visit the estate,” he informed.

Francis perked up slightly. An opportunity to visit an English estate and taste luxury food and wine? Fuck yes. “When does he set sail?”

“Early June. Come for July. Keep in mind that English summers tend to be… wet.”

“Of course,” smiled Francis, and with a simple glance, their plans were set.

* * *

As the months passed, Francis couldn’t help looking forward to visiting Arthur’s estate and the lush lifestyle he would have the opportunity to taste. He was careful to maintain a low profile despite it being his sailing season, only venturing out to meet with his crew and spread the wealth of their last excursion Arthur had provided during his brief visit in Montreal.

None of them felt it was a good idea for Francis to travel to England, where he would be most exposed as a Frenchman and an outsider of the law.

Still, Francis felt that the risk was well-calculated. And since his men were not willing to join him on his excursion to the old world, not yet trusting their English employers enough to venture onto their land, Francis would have to bribe a merchant ship to allow him aboard for a one-way trip to France, offering them his services without cost along the way.

The trip was much longer than anticipated, and Francis was grateful for the work to keep his mind and his hands busy along the way. More than once, he wondered if it was worth it at all, until he would have a bit of dried fish or an old, bruising apple and remember just what sort of delicious food awaited him on Arthur’s estate.

More than once, he found himself wondering what his family’s motherland was like and why his parents ever chose to travel all the way to the New World in the first place.

When the ship arrived at Le Havre on its way to Paris, Francis was grateful that the merchants had let him onboard there. Now on French territory, _truly_ French territory, Francis thrummed with pride and nervousness. On the one hand, he was glad to be able to walk on the same soil as his ancestors. On the other, a nagging part of him feared that the true French wouldn’t accept him as one of their own simply because he grew up in the New World, despite it still belonging to King Louis XIV.

He sadly discovered that his worries were meaningless. The disparity between the nobility, the bourgeoisie and the common folk was too stark for it to matter. He easily slipped into the crowds like any other peasant and no one questioned his odd accent when he hopped into a carriage set for Calais. Simply put, no one cared.

And of course, he was aware of the wars that had been raging in the Europe for decades, but he was not prepared for the damage he would see, left unmended. Buildings were still falling apart, in disrepair and damaged from cannons, and in the countryside, rotting corpses still littered open fields and ditches, scavenged of their clothes and trinkets.

In his heart, Francis could see that his parents made the right decision to move away from so much misery, even if it meant living a hard, toiling life. In the quiet carriage, overfilled with young families of half a dozen dirty children and their parents dressed in rags, he sent a grateful prayer to them.

Although his travels seemed to drag on endlessly, it was a big learning experience for Francis. He began to miss home more and more, and by the time the carriage stopped in Calais, he was beginning to look forward to his final destination less for the luxury of Arthur’s riches and more out of need for his company.

Once upon a time, he would have loathed to admit it. Even now, he still couldn’t bear the thought of confessing it out loud. But Francis came to see Arthur as a friend rather than simply as a gateway to safer piracy. He has had too much time to reflect on their relationship since embarking on this journey all by himself and the conclusion left him a little weak in the knees. When he found himself comparing Arthur to the women he had courted in the past, Francis realized he was in too deep. Something dark began to form in the pit of his stomach that only grew on the short ferry ride between Calais and Dover.

From there, he was only a short carriage ride between Dover and the small town in Essex where Arthur’s family lived for decades. That little something dark in his stomach grew into a little beast that whispered nagging thoughts into Francis’ mind, claiming that Arthur probably hated him, probably pitied his miserable, soulless carcass, was using him for some political game that Francis couldn’t even comprehend, and all the while, the dark beast grew and grew until Francis wanted nothing more than to run back home.

But he was already here. He had already come so far and travelled for so long, it was a waste not to go through with it, to _not_ see Arthur at the end of this long road. If there was one thing his father taught him as a little boy and that stuck with him through adulthood, it’s that his time will always be worth something and that only he could determine that worth.

So with deep breaths, Francis let himself be dropped off in front of the mansion’s gates, the wrought-iron looming over him, protecting the precious lives enclosed within. He was about to intrude into a world where he could never belong, the growing beast reminded him. With another deep breath, Francis hushed the monster and pushed the gate open, walking the long gravelly path to the front door, breathing in the flowers and the ripening apples hanging from the trees along the garden. A gentle breeze blew through to cool Francis’ dampening skin. He was beginning to feel like he might be sick.

Before he could reach the front door, an older woman in a black dress and white frock, her white-streaked blond hair tied neatly atop her head, came forward to greet him.

“Are you Mr. Bonnefoy?” she asked him, an attractive smile gracing her lips.

“Yes,” he nodded, his voice hoarse with disuse.

She gave him a smile and a slight bow. “Please follow me,” she said, turning to head back inside with Francis at her feet, his eyes never leaving the austere outside of the manor until he was tucked away inside as well, cornered between his sickness and his need to see an old friend once again.

She led him into a high-ceilinged room with shelves of books lining every wall from floor to ceiling. _A library_ , thought Francis, admiring the vast collection that he could never possibly imagine amassing. He couldn’t help noticing a huge family portrait hanging between the tall windows in the center of the room, showing a rather fat man standing beside a seated, bony-looking woman, framed by their five children with mops of hair in shades varying from blond to ginger. Arthur was immediately recognizable as the blondest of the bunch. Long, thick red curtains framed the portrait but it was pulled over to cover the right side of the portrait, hiding someone standing just next to Arthur.

“Why--?” Francis stopped realizing the maid had already gone and left him alone. Francis let out a little sneer, now seeing where Arthur got that particular habit.

He was about to attempt to pull the curtain aside and catch a glance of who hid behind it when he heard rushed footsteps and quickly turned. He somehow became speechless seeing Arthur, in a simple housecoat as opposed to the heavy jackets he had seen him wear in the New World.

“Francis! I’m so glad to see you,” he greeted amicably, as though their last encounter in Francis’ home had never happened.

Francis struggled to find words. “I could hardly let this opportunity slip me by,” he settled on, and then kicked himself mentally for not coming up with something better.

“You must be starving. Come with me to the dining hall. It’s still too early for dinner but we can at least have a few _amuse-bouches_ while we wait,” he offered, turning to lead Francis.

Thinking to himself how fancy but _ravishing_ that sounded, Francis didn’t give it a second thought, following Arthur excitedly and ignoring the nasty beast that still lingered in the pit of his stomach, albeit calmer than it had been along the journey.

He was led through a parlour before reaching the dining hall. Francis still couldn’t get enough of how rich this estate was, although less so than he originally imagined. Arthur, it seems, only gave off an _illusion_ of being especially well off. This was still well-off _enough_ for Francis.

“Please take a seat, make yourself at home. I’ll get the girls to prepare something,” said Arthur, disappearing through the servant’s door, presumably to get to the kitchen where the cook was preparing dinner.

But he wasn’t gone long and when he returned, it was with a bottle of bordeaux and two crystal wine glasses that matched the scotch glasses he kept aboard his ship.

“Wine?” he offered.

“Please,” Francis eagerly accepted, watching as Arthur popped the cork off the bottle and filled their glasses, sitting next to him.

“How was your journey? Did your men stay at the coast?” he asked.

“I travelled alone this time,” informed Francis, swirling the red in his glass to smell its bouquets. My god, it smelled heavenly.

“Dear God. It must have cost you a fortune to get here,” frowned Arthur.

“I stowed away on a merchant ship, offered my labour for a free passage to France. From there, it did begin to get expensive,” he confessed, getting up to walk around the room, admiring the paintings that lined the dining room, most of them depicting wars and conquests. “I haven’t given much thought into how I’m going to get back, however.”

“Don’t worry about that, I can arrange for your safe passage,” promised Arthur, turning in his chair to watch Francis move about the room.

“That’s very generous of you,” thanked Francis. “But I’ll admit, I imagined your home to be richer,” he said sheepishly.

“We’re just old money,” shrugged Arthur. “there’s nothing rich about it. Old money is going out of style anyway.”

“So I’ve heard.” Yes, more than once along his trip, he had heard poor families’ gripes about the how the bourgeois and the nobles were stealing from them with their outrageous prices and taxes, and how they were preparing to overthrow the monarchy. Francis couldn’t imagine that happening.

He heard the servant’s door swing open and Francis turned to see, curious as to what he would be eating. He didn’t notice his glass slip from his hands until he heard it shatter to the wooden floorboards, the heavenly red splashing across his pant legs and staining the white cotton tablecloth and the cream-colored patterned wallpaper.

Everyone looked at Francis in shock, but none more shocked then the young maid that came in, her dark brown eyes opening wide as recognition spread across her soft features. Her high cheekbones and dark silken hair were unmistakable to Francis, although he had long forgotten what she looked like since he had last seen her.

“Francis, what’s wrong?” asked Arthur worriedly, standing to bring Francis back to sit in his chair, but the Frenchman stood his ground, the little beast inside him rearing its ugly head, his gaze drifting from the young woman only to scorch at Arthur with anger he couldn’t explain.

“Francis?” called the maid, his name ringing in his own ears with its proper French pronunciation. There was no mistaking it anymore--there was no questioning it now.

“Sophie,” breathed Francis, his heart breaking along with his voice. Here stood his sister, indentured to an English noble. His mind unable to even consider the whys and the hows, he was just so angry, all of it directed at Arthur for stealing his sister away for _keeping her secret_. “What did you do to her!” snapped Francis, his fingers digging vice-like into Arthur’s arm.

“Hey, stop!” cried Arthur, gripping Francis’ other wrist before he could do something stupid, like punch him. He was horribly confused and at a loss for words over the sudden change that came over his partner.

Sophie quickly saw what was unfolding before her, setting the tray of food down on the table and rushing to the other side to grip at Francis’ shirt, to pull him away from Arthur. “Francis, arrête!” she shrieked angrily at him. “Il nous a rien fait!”

Francis froze, his grip remaining stubbornly on Arthur’s arm as he turned to look at his sister.

“Nous?” he asked in breathless hope.

“Monique is here with me,” she informed him in that familiar French lull, and still angrily, added, “Please, let him go!”

Francis was speechless. It took a conscious effort on his part to let go of Arthur, who was now ruffled and displeased. “What the _bloody hell_ is going on?!” he shouted.

“He didn’t know,” answered Sophie in Francis’ defence, and hearing his sister give such a supplicant tone to Arthur made Francis grit his teeth.

How _dare_ these English, pompous _fucks_ , enslave his sisters like this!

“Francis, _he didn’t know_ ,” she added more forcefully, yanking hard on her brother’s arm with surprising strength to force him to look at her. The ferocity blazing in her eyes was enough to dampen the beast inside Francis. “I mean, he _knew_ that we have brothers, but we never told him how we were separated. Please, let us explain,” she pleaded to him.

Behind them, the rest of the small staff had begun peaking into the room to see what the fuss was about. Monique snuck past them and dashed towards Francis as well, this time to wrap her arms around him in a suffocating hug. Francis returned her embrace, just as strongly, feeling tears well when her small frame shook with sobs in his grasp. He felt Sophie’s grip on his arm soften, only to slip into his arms as well, letting her strong composure drop just as Monique had.

“We’ll, uh.. We’ll leave you three alone,” Arthur said quietly, ushering everyone out of the room and following close behind them, closing the door shut to give their family the all the privacy they could need.

When the door clicked shut, the three siblings sank to the wine-stained floor in a tight, unrelinquishing embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t think it’s entirely necessary to translate the French but here it is, just in case.
> 
>  
> 
> _“Francis, stop!” she shrieked angrily at him. “He has done nothing to us!”_
> 
>  
> 
> _Francis froze, his grip remaining stubbornly on Arthur’s arm as he turned to look at his sister._
> 
>  
> 
> _“Us?” he asked in breathless hope._


	17. Brothers Worlds Apart, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AN** : I remember many chapters ago, my beta, GalacticAesir, bugged me about the girls and what happened to them and yada yada. Initially, they just get lost in the story (that’s life, y’know?) but then it occurred to me that this would be a good way to get Francis to get over his pathological hatred and distrust of the English… at least when it comes to Arthur.
> 
> So here’s part 2! Here, we’ll get the back story behind what happened to the Bonnefoy sisters, which will inevitably lead to our two wayward lover boys finally reaching the highest friendship level achievable before eventually reaching the next step in their relationship!
> 
> ~~Can you tell this story is getting much longer than initially intended? Happens every time...~~
> 
> (Also, please assume that this next section is all in French.)
> 
> *quietly sings “It’s a Small World After All” in the background*

The three siblings knelt in that small puddle of wine for a moment, taking the time to truly take in the fact that they were together again after being separated for so long, believing each other dead. It was Monique that eventually had the presence of mind to get them back up and the two sisters lead their wayward brother up the three flights of stairs to the servants’ quarters, and up to their own room. Along the way, Sophie stopped into Braith’s room to find some clothes for Francis--she didn’t dare go into her master’s room, and she could already tell at a glance that her brother wouldn’t fit in Arthur’s clothes.

The three of them continued to cry silently while they changed and with clean clothes on, they sat together on one of the rickety beds.

“Tell me everything,” insisted Francis, having regained himself enough to speak without his voice cracking.

The sisters exchanged a glance. Monique rubbed at her eyes and sniffled. “You never came home from the market,” she murmured quietly. “We knew something was wrong when you didn’t return. But it was too late for us to go and search. The next morning, after feeding the animals, we took Daisy and we went to the city to find you…”

“The city felt deserted,” continued Sophie. “We got scared but we continued, until we saw some men in red coats…”

Francis paled. “Why didn’t you run?” he asked, his voice tinged with sadness.

“They saw us before we saw them,” said Monique. “They shot Daisy and when she fell, we fell off her. They were on us before we could turn and run. They captured us and they took us to their leader… He was not a very kind man…”

“He took one look at Monique and decided to have her all to himself…” sighed Sophie.

“I held on to Sophie!” exclaimed Monique. “They tried to take her to the tents where their men slept but I wouldn’t let them! They would have to take me with her…”

Francis cussed under his breath hearing all of this, running a hand over his scruffed chin. He hated the powerlessness he felt, knowing exactly what sort of ugly shit happened to women in these sorts of situations, the violence, the abuse…

“The commander took pity and decided to keep both of us… He took us to his home and treated me like any other maid, but he treated Sophie like a slave…”

“I would always sneak into Monique’s room to sleep with her instead of staying under the stairs, but sometimes he would sneak into her room and I would have to hide…”

Monique gave her sister a hard look to get her to shut up. Sophie gawked a moment and closed her mouth, eyes downcast into her lap as she noticed anger flare in Francis’ eyes.

“Kirkland did this to you?” he seethed.

“God no!” exclaimed both girls.

“Admiral and Captain Kirkland came to the manor one evening to celebrate the commander’s 20 years of service. At first, from the looks Master Arthur gave me, I thought he was oggling me like most of the other men tended to do, and he approached me in the servants’ halls,” started Monique.

“I always keep a close eye on Monique while she works because of men approaching her. I always call the master over when it happens; he’s so possessive of her, he nearly kills any man that touches her and I was about to go fetch him when the Captain said something curious.”

“He asked me about my… condition,” explained Monique. “He saw how the commander treated us, the girls especially. He offered me a job in his own home and promised his protection.”

Francis raised a brow. “Whatever for?” he asked. “What purpose did he have?”

Monique shrugged. “He said I reminded him of someone dear to him. I told him I wouldn’t unless I took my sister with me.”

“When I heard her mention me, I walked over. He looked me up and down and without a second thought, he agreed. He told us to stay out of the party and out of sight and then he left.”

“We later learned that Master Arthur made a plea to Admiral Kirkland and the master bought us from the commander. He paid dearly…”

Francis’ head was reeling in too many directions. “Kirkland _bought_ you?”

“Well... I was hardly more than a slave to the commander,” reminded Sophie. “And he was horribly possessive of Monique. Admiral Kirkland made him an offer he couldn’t refuse and Arthur refuses to tell us what price it is they paid exactly. But they treat me well here. Both of us.”

“It makes no difference that we’re French or that Sophie is Native. And anytime Master Arthur hears someone speak badly of us, he defends us and scolds them,” continued Monique. “We owe him everything, Francis. And yet it feels like we owe him nothing.”

“They pay us, they feed us, they offered us each our own rooms, but we chose to stay together,” assured Sophia. “When we are sick, they bring doctors in and they pay for all our medical expenses. We were assured that if we chose to marry, then we can live with our husbands on one of the cottages on the property so we can have complete privacy. We’re given all the freedoms of English-born women.”

Francis was speechless by all of this. After all the hardships he and his brother went through, his sisters, it turned out, were in perfectly good hands. His eyes glistened with happiness at this realization and relief.

“But where is Matthieu?” asked Sophie, quietly, barely above a whisper.

Francis choked. “Matthieu died one night when he went to get firewood. An animal, probably a bear or a fisher,” he mumbled. “He was not as lucky, nor as experienced as Papa. I shouldn’t have left him alone…”

The two girls fell silent. Monique’s hand shot up to cover her mouth as she imagined the horrible sight Francis must have stumbled upon. Sophie simply bent her head down, eyes closed, muttering a quiet prayer under her breath. The two girls crept closer, each on either side of their brother to hold him. All three laid down on their backs, finally together and able to relive this familiar warmth that they’ve sought for over a decade.

Of course, the girls already knew what had happened to the town people. When the British invaded, they slaughtered the adults and kidnapped the children, separating boys and girls. Girls were sold as servants and slaves while the boys were indoctrinated to become good little soldier boys for the English empire. They heard all of this through whispers amongst both nobles and servants from both households they’ve served over the years.

They knew that to some extent, their brothers were safe, albeit most likely abused. They knew Matthieu would be the type to keep his head low, smart enough to pass off as submissive, but they also knew that Francis wouldn’t give in easily. But they were still confident enough that their eldest brother was not stupid and would not let his own pride get in the way of his survival.

Still, knowing it in theory was different than knowing it in their hearts. Seeing Francis in their master’s home as an invited privateer was a reality very far from their expectations.

As the sun began to creep away, leaving way for night, it still didn’t feel like enough time together, but, “We need to go, Francis,” murmured Monique. “We love you, but we very much like working here.”

“And as much as Master Arthur favours us, his father decides who to hire and who to fire,” said Sophie as they all slipped out of the rickety bed.

Francis frowned but nodded in understanding. “I love you too,” he breathed, the words sounding foreign to him now after so many years of disuse.

The girls each gave him a smile, each taking one of his hands to squeeze before guiding him back down to the dining hall, which was now empty.

“Oh… Where’s Master Arthur?” murmured Sophie.

“I will go ask the head maid,” said Monique before slipping away.

Sophie lead Francis to the parlour. “You should wait here. Family members usually gather here after dinner,” she informed.

“But--”

Sophie hushed him. “You’re the master’s guest. We will have plenty of time to catch up,” she promised him. “But for now, Monique and I need to help clean up and close the estate for the night. Until then, you should be with Arthur.”

Francis pouted. “Fine. Then have him find me. I’ll wait here.”

Sophie smiled, small and endearing. She reached up to cup Francis’ cheek, running her thumb over the pink scar. She whispered a sweet ‘I love you’ before slipping away as well.

Just as before, Francis glanced around the room as he waited. This one seemed decorated in creams and whites, with pale blue vases filled with flowers around the room. It was decorated in a more French style, which Francis couldn’t help feeling was an odd choice for this family.

Soon, he got tired of sitting, and stood up. Tired of waiting, he left the parlour and wandered around, looking for Arthur. He only knew of three rooms thus far, and he already knew his friend wasn’t in the dining hall, so he ventured for the library instead. Besides, if Arthur wasn’t there, he was still curious to investigate the painting there.

But the painting was instantly banished from his thoughts when he entered the high-ceilinged room. There was only a single lantern lit at the back on a desk. There was a large fireplace by the desk with two heavy winged-back chairs, and someone was seated in one of them.

Quietly, Francis walked over to investigate, wondering who the man was, hoping it was Arthur, but wondering why no one came to get Francis if Arthur was just in the next room all along.

“You should be with your sisters,” came Arthur’s sobered voice from the chair, answering Francis’ suspicions. Francis felt a pang hearing the hurt in his tone, and remembered how he gripped his arm hard enough it must have hurt.

Francis didn’t trust himself to speak. He continued to walk over to Arthur, but before he reached him, he stood up, setting his glass of scotch down. “Why are you here?” he sighed, sounding impatient. “If you still think of me as some self-entitled _ass_ that takes advantage of defenceless girls, then why did you bother coming here?”

Francis ignored him, still continuing to step closer, unwavering. He saw Arthur take a step back in alarm, ready to defend himself, so Francis made an active effort to make his approach less intimidating, loosening his stance, hands lowered and loosened by his sides, but still coming closer, close enough to reach for Arthur’s wrist.

Close enough to pull him in, to wrap his arms around the slender man, to embrace him.

Arthur froze in his grasp, suspicious, but when Francis embraced him, he relaxed somewhat. Eventually, he relaxed enough to return the embrace, understanding now.

Feeling Arthur relax in his grasp, Francis finally embraced him fully, tightening around him, their bodies flush together and his hand gliding up to bury in Arthur’s smooth hair. He let everything he felt flow into his touch, hoping it would be enough for Arthur to understand without words.

Arthur became breathless. He understood.


	18. Revenge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally meant to post this earlier but then I forgot, completely distracted by disgraceful things (watching way too much The Walking Dead and playing Runescape....). But here it is! They're finally starting to get a little handsy here so we'll see how it goes haha

Thankfully, the rest of their evening passed without drama. Arthur and Francis simply sat each in an armchair by the fire, finishing the wine that was opened earlier. Francis occasionally asked him questions about the state of Europe, which had been nagging at him since setting eyes on it for the first time.

“It doesn’t look so bad in the capitals,” informed Arthur. “The royal courts are going out of their way to make it look like nothing is wrong for themselves and their pets.”

“It’s pitiful,” frowned Francis. “Why do you bear with it?”

Arthur sighed. “To be honest, I hated living in Boston when we were young. I wanted nothing more than to come back to London, but Father had his work and I later found out, my mother’s health was growing too delicate for London air. The only thing that made it remotely bearable for me was the time’s I spent with you.”

Francis’ throat felt tight at that. “To be honest, I’ve hated you since we met,” he said quietly.

Arthur laughed. “I know,” he assured. “I fooled myself into thinking that you somehow hated me less than all the rest.”

“I do now,” breathed Francis.

“And besides, now that I’m older and I actually have a grasp of what’s happening around me, I much prefer living in the New World,” Arthur said grimly. “But our family’s estate is here. I come home to take a breather from work and fighting.”

Francis hummed, casting a sideways glance at Arthur, remembering how cold and calculating he is in combat. “You’ve seen many battles…”

“More than the average English soldier my age,” agreed Arthur. “Which is why I was promoted so quickly.”

“Why?” asked Francis, wanting to fully understand his partner. “Why would you put yourself in harm’s way like this?”

Arthur grit his teeth. He slowly sipped at his wine, ignoring the question as he was unwilling to answer it yet, but Francis easily noticed how his glance darkened. So he did have a reason for putting himself in danger. Francis only hoped it was a good reason.

“Will you at least tell me who your hiding in that portrait?” he asked with a sigh, twisting in his chair to glance back at the enormous painting, which now looked ominous in the pale golden light of the fire.

“I told you they disowned my brother,” reminded Arthur. “That’s Alistair standing behind me. My mother died shortly after and my father couldn’t bear the thought of having a new family portrait made without her in it.”

“May I see?”

Arthur shrugged, turning back towards the fire.

That was more than enough permission for Francis. He stood up and walked towards the portrait, tugging hard on the long curtain to pull it aside just enough to uncover Alistair’s pale skin and bright red hair, like a mane of fire framing carved alabaster. His green eyes shone darker than Arthur’s, but he somehow had the same monstrous eyebrows.

And Francis recognized him instantly. He knew who this man was… They have met before.

He understood why he was disowned now.

“I think I’m ready to retire for the night,” gulped Francis, pulling the curtain back in place.

“Of course. I’ll show you to your room,” assured Arthur, standing up and setting his glass down before leading Francis upstairs to the bedrooms. Many portraits painted over the years lined the staircase leading up.

Arthur stopped in front of one of the rooms halfway down the hall. “This is my brother Braith’s room. He’s on an excavation in Africa so he’s not likely to come home for months, still. You’re welcome to use his clothes as well. They’d fit you better than mine or my father’s,” he said.

“Thank you,” said Francis as he glanced around the room, it’s obvious centrepiece being the four-poster bed in the centre, which was already made. Clearly, Braith didn’t spend much time in his room.

“Your sisters know you’ll be sleeping here. They will make sure to bring you breakfast. I’ve given them the next few days off work so the three of you can catch up properly.”

Francis turned at that, unsure he heard right, but seeing the soft smile Arthur gave him, he was immensely grateful.

“Thank you,” he breathed, his eyes softening warmly.

* * *

When the summer ended, Francis joined Arthur and his small fleet as they went back to Fort Rupert. Francis hated leaving his sisters behind, but he was content at least in knowing they would be safe. 

The trip back was far quicker and far more enjoyable than the trip going in. And since it was nearing winter, Francis wouldn’t have to worry about resorting to piracy to get by, happy to go back to hunting and selling pelts and meats to Natives and immigrants alike along the Hudson’s Bay.

“When does your hunting season end?” asked Arthur before they parted ways at the docks.

“On good seasons? April perhaps,” answered Francis, eager to start getting ready for his work.

Arthur nodded. “I’ll set contracts aside for when you’re ready,” he assured.

Francis chuckled at his pragmatism. Not caring who saw, he walked up to Arthur to wrap his arms around him in a tight hug that looked nothing more than brotherly to passersby.

“Stay safe,” mumbled Arthur.

“Don’t pick fights,” retorted Francis in kind, his hand coming up to cup Arthur’s cheek but changing his mind at the last minute and giving him a light smack instead.

Arthur wrinkled his nose, shoving Francis ahead to get on his way already, the Frenchman simply laughing as he turned and walked away.

“What a bugger,” mumbled Arthur under his breath, turning to head towards the fort and get back to his own hunt.

Since he’d gone up in rank, Arthur had more freedom for ‘personal’ projects, and since becoming a captain, he had begun on his lifelong mission of finding Alistair, his estranged brother, and right his wrongs at any cost. It was a mission that Arthur had considered including Francis in, but since his friend showed no signs of recognizing Alistair after uncovering his portrait in the library, Arthur decided against it. Their relationship was complicated enough without making it any more personal.

The problem was that it was difficult to track down Alistair, since Arthur’s own reach only extended south to the colonies, and he strongly suspected that Alistair never left the European seas. He couldn’t even be certain that the eldest Kirkland was still alive. Nonetheless, he swore he would find out everything about his brother.

As the winter dragged on, Arthur only grew more frustrated in his mission. He still kept his duty to the empire in cleaning up the seas around their borders, going where he was needed, and he continued to stockpile contracts and profiles for Francis to hunt down those that went beyond Arthur’s jurisdiction. Still, it wasn’t enough. He needed more. He needed more information about Alistair.

And for that, he needed to go home.

It took Arthur a long time to gather the courage to petition for a transfer. When the Admiral in charge at Fort Rupert refused to give it to him, he petitioned for a leave, promising a sizable donation for the fort’s and their ships’ restoration. The Admiral grit his teeth and waved him off without another word.

Arthur took the _Cumberland_ with him, and the crew that came with it. He didn’t actually intend to fulfill that promise, especially if he can manage to convince a group of Admirals from home to agree to his transfer. Then he would never have to return to the New World.

His only regret would be seeing Francis less than he’d like, but that was something he hoped to remedy when the hunting season ended. Until then, he concentrated solely on appealing to the higher ranking officers to keep him close to home rather than send him off. Luckily, his father was in favour of keeping him close to home, especially since his health has been getting worse as of late, forcing him to remain on land.

But while he waited for his petitions for transfer to be approved, Arthur spent most of his time in his countryside home near Canterbury. Distant from sea and city, it was quiet and peaceful place, save for the occasional pilgrim on a journey to visit the infamous cathedral where Archbishop Thomas Becket was murdered and enshrined centuries prior.

More importantly, it was far enough away from his father and the army of nurses and servants. Arthur only took two maids with him when he went to his Canterbury home and he deliberately chose Monique and Sophie to join him this time. Knowing they were cut from the same cloth as Francis, they were the only staff Arthur remotely trusted to keep their mouths shut about his private affairs and to not gossip.

From home, Arthur kept his ears and eyes open, and he asked the two young women to do the same and report to him if they hear anything about pirates or miscreants along the coasts. The Bonnefoys were confused by the request, but they were happy to comply. Arthur had the entire study set up to map out Alistair’s sightings, potential routes, and whereabouts, and the information Arthur currently held without military information was horribly bleak. When he wasn’t in the study, he kept it under lock and key with the only key being on his person. He didn’t want anyone snooping around and getting in his way, and aside from the Bonnefoy sisters, no one knew what was locked inside the study.

By spring, Arthur was beginning to feel outright worn out. He’d finally gotten a visit from a few generals and they had given him his new orders--he no longer owed his former superior his services and was now stationed on the other side of the country in Bristol. He played host for the admirals that came to visit him until they left the next morning, leaving Arthur with a sigh, realizing he needed to pack his things soon and sail for the other end of England.

But first, he needed a break. Wanting to take Sophie and Monique with him, he sent a letter home to his father giving him the great news and requesting as much and told himself he could begin packing once he receives his father’s reply.

Until then, he would relax. He would banish all thoughts of Alistair or militia, and simply lounge around the house. Maybe he’ll read a book. He figured he could treat the girls to something nice and take them to town for pastries or new dresses, since they certainly deserved nice things, he thought. They seemed more than happy to come along anyhow and they were ecstatic to return to the house and try on their new dresses, which were modelled after the latest French fashions.

But one day, Arthur simply wanted to be alone. He gave the two girls plenty of pocket change and sent them to the city one Sunday morning and told them to take the day off and enjoy the sunny day. They were surprised, but happily went on their way, preparing the carriage and going into Canterbury by themselves for church, lunch, and shopping, leaving Arthur blissfully alone. He was in the parlour, sipping some coffee that the girls had already prepared with dry toast to nibble on. He left the windows open so he could hear the birds outside chirping happily, the smell of lilacs breezing into the house. Such tranquility was so hard to come by lately.

Which is why he was especially jolted and peeved when he heard a loud banging at the front door. With a grunt, Arthur put his coffee mug down and went to the door to tell whoever it was to bugger off already, and when he swung the door open, he stood dumbfounded when he found Francis standing on his doorstep. “Where the bloody fuck did you come from?” exclaimed Arthur, the words slipping out.

“Not the worst greeting you’ve ever given me. I’ll take it,” snided Francis, stepping between Arthur and the doorframe to get in. “You’re surprisingly easy to find, mon ami. Considering your line of work, you might want to consider better security. Do I smell coffee?”

Arthur sighed and closed the door. He walked over to Francis to hug him briefly before going to the kitchen to fill him a mug.

“Are you all alone out here?” wondered Francis, looking around for the elusive staff that tended to stick around at their every beck and call. “I can’t picture you preparing your own meals.”

“I brought Monique and Sophie along with me. I wanted the house to myself today, so I gave them money and sent them into town for a day out,” he said, handing him his coffee.

“That’s… that’s quite generous of you,” remarked Francis a little suspiciously. “Do you always bring my sisters with you when you’re in England?”

“Yes,” admitted Arthur, leading Francis into the small parkour to sit. “As you can imagine, their situation here is much more delicate than any of our other employees, and I like to make sure they’re safe and well taken care of personally.”

“I see,” thought Francis, sitting on the large sofa in front of the fireplace.

“I imagine you’re here for your contracts, then?”

“Oh, well, yes, among other things,” said Francis sheepishly.

“Such as?” wondered Arthur, sitting on the other end of the same sofa.

“How have you been?” he asked suddenly. “You don’t look like you’ve been sleeping well…”

Arthur sighed and ran a hand through his hair, which he hadn’t bothered combing back today. “I guess I haven’t been getting much sleep.”

“Why? Is it work?”

“Something like that,” murmured Arthur. “I’ve decided to relocate myself to England for the time being, for personal reasons.”

“Your father?”

“For family, yes,” he answered vaguely. “I’m being relocated to Bristol, and I’ve sent a letter to my father requesting to keep your sisters in my employ, so hopefully they’ll be coming with me and stay under my protection.”

Francis’ eyes darkened a moment. “You better not be doing so to keep me under your thumb, Kirkland,” he warned.

Arthur looked appalled. “God no! After everything, you seriously still think I’m such a manipulative git?” he exclaimed, seeming genuinely offended.

Francis bit his lip and shook his head. “No… I’m sorry, it’s just..”

“Look, I get, you’re protective of the girls,” said Arthur. “But that’s no reason to cast blame on me for something I didn’t, nor would ever do!”

“I know,” assured Francis, trying to placate Arthur. “I don’t think that at all of you, not anymore. In fact, I admire your candid bravery, your nobility, your sense of justice. But you are still pig-headed, fool-hearted, and bull-tempered,” says Francis openly.

Arthur blushed with pride at the flattery, only to deflate into a bad-tempered snapping. “Really, the nerve of you! After all the trouble I’m going through to protect your sisters for _their own merit_ , you insult--”

Francis pulls Arthur far too close for comfort, bridging the gap between them on the couch, surprising Arthur into silence. “I’ve known what sort of man you were the moment I first laid eyes on you,” he breathed hotly against his ear. Arthur’s entire body heated up. Before Arthur could give him a proper retort, Francis leaned in to kiss him. Although his lips were rough to the touch, they were so warm and welcoming that Arthur lingered into the kiss. It doesn’t even cross his mind that this was his first kiss.

What he realizes is that, unhindered, Francis may become his first everything.


	19. Uncharted Territories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyheyhey thanks for reading! Chapter 20 is written as well, I'm just waiting for my beta to get around to it between moving apartments and Life Stuff!
> 
> Let me know if I disappoint y'all!

Arthur soon regained his senses and pushed Francis off him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he snapped.

Francis sighed. “Why do you seem surprised?”

“Well--I don’t know, because men shouldn’t do _that_ with other men!” he sputtered.

Francis gave him a thoughtful glance, almost looking like he was changing his mind about something. “Forgive me. I was under the impression that you fancied me as much as I fancy you,” he said dismissively, picking up his coffee mug like nothing happened.

Arthur admittedly felt brushed off, now. “I need a drink,” he mumbled, getting up to get his scotch out of the cabinet, not caring that it was barely noon. “And for the record, in future, I would appreciate it if you’d _ask_ before kissing me,” he mumbled abrasively.

“Well pardon me, _Master_ Arthur. I’ll make sure to ask for your permission next time,” replied Francis with a roll of his eyes. “On the condition that you ask _my_ permission before staring at my ass.”

Arthur’s face burned red. “I do not!”

Francis could only laugh quietly in that nasally way of his, _hon hon hon_. Arthur tried not to let it grate him and simply poured a larger serving of scotch for himself.

“Not a word of this to anyone,” grumbled Arthur.

“Of course not. I have sisters to consider, now,” reminded Francis.

At that moment, it didn’t matter _what_ they were now, so long as they could trust each other just enough. Arthur thought that was the end of that.

It certainly was not.

After Francis stuffed his papers into his coat, he went snooping around the house, and Arthur felt compelled to follow him to make sure he was staying out of trouble. He first went around the first floor, his first stop being the kitchen (“Do you even use any of this or do you make my sisters do all the work? Where’s the cheese? Is your wine stashed in here?”), and then he continued into the dining room (“Who even _needs_ this many dishes? And why are they stored in a glass cabinet? Who are you trying to impress with this crap?”), and then getting bored with the parlour and the various hunting trophies hanging about (“Why only hang the head? Have you even _seen_ a moose penis? Now _that’s_ a trophy worth hanging!”), he moved on upstairs. He peeked into all the bedrooms, easily finding the one where his sisters slept (top of the staircase, by far the largest, in order to fit two beds) and moved on to the others, all made, but in need of cleaning. Arthur’s was at the far end of the hall, the second largest, and easily the most finely decorated. Francis wondered how those silk sheets would feel on his bare arse, but remembering how prickly Arthur got with a simple kiss, he kept that particular comment to himself.

And then he came across a locked door.

“What’s in here?”

“My study. No one’s allowed in there,” answered Arthur.

Francis noticed him bristle. “Why? Is this where your hunting rifles are locked up?”

“No, the rifles are locked up in the barn behind the house.”

“Then what are you hiding?”

“That’s none of your business,” snapped Arthur, having finished his second generous dose of scotch since Francis began exploring. “Are you going to pick a room or not? I’ll have to get one of the girls to clean it and change the sheets before you can go to bed later.”

“I’ll take the one next to your room,” replied Francis cheekily, and at Arthur’s displeased expression, defensively added, “I like the colour scheme best.”

Arthur sighed. “Suit yourself. Might as well put your things in there, then, or were you expecting someone else to do it for you?”

Francis scoffed at him and went downstairs to get his suitcase, bringing it up to his room before sitting back down on the couch in the parlour.

“You’re being a terrible host,” remarked Francis with a pout.

“You’re being a rude guest,” replied Arthur smoothly, pouring them both some scotch then.

“Can’t blame me for being curious. I’ve never been in a home like this.”

“You mean empty?” Arthur replied, and quickly shut himself up, tight-lipped.

Francis gave him an apologetic look. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“Of course. You meant the money,” murmured Arthur, “and not at all the absence of a loving family.

“Although I can agree that you’re lacking in that regard.”  
“Thanks,” grumbled Arthur, pointedly looking away to stare into the fireplace.

Silence prolonged between them a moment while Francis considered how he might cheer Arthur up.

“Tell you what: I’m getting peckish so why don’t I go whip us something up in the kitchen,” he said, standing up.

“The girls will be here soon, there’s no need to,” said Arthur, glancing up.

“I want to,” said Francis with finality, walking over to the kitchen.

Arthur picked up his glass and followed him with a sigh.

“You don’t have to watch me all the time,” pouted Francis. “I know my way around a kitchen.”

Arthur gave a disgruntled look and didn’t reply. Honestly, he just didn’t want to be alone and he didn’t want to admit as much.

Francis shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said, grabbing an apron before looking around the kitchen for ideas on what to make.

“Why did you come here?” Arthur asked suddenly, slurring slightly.

Francis shrugged, trying to think about how to best evade the question. In the end, he decided on partial honesty. “I wanted to see you.”

“But why?” he asked more insistently. “You said you fancy me…”

“And I do,” replied Francis earnestly, growing nervous by the direction Arthur was taking.

“And then you started pretending like you didn’t just drop a cannon over my head.”

Francis sighed, focusing a moment on slicing the leftover ham he found.

“Well? Do you fancy me or not?” asked Arthur, and Francis couldn’t help noticing the slight whine in his tone.

“Would it make a difference either way?” he replied curtly. “You have made it clear that you don’t fancy me, so I hardly see a point on lingering over the matter.”

“I have never said that,” pouted Arthur.

Francis paused to turn and glance at Arthur, letting his irritation show. Arthur was unfazed by the look he was getting.

“Francis.”

“What?” he replied curtly, wiping his hands on a nearby cloth.

“Kiss me.”

Francis blinked. “You’re drunk,” he stated, unamused.

“Maybe,” mumbled Arthur with a pout.

Francis sighed and went back to making ham and cheese pinwheels for them to snack on. “Put the booze away,” he murmured.

Arthur made a whining sound, but he pushed the bottle aside, nursing only his glass now which was thankfully almost empty.

After getting some food and water in him, Francis cleaned up the kitchen before shouldering Arthur up to his room, insisting that he nap the rest of the afternoon away. He hoped his feelings would remain unchanged once sobered up.

When evening came, the siblings decided to let Arthur sleep rather than wake him for dinner. The three of them were in sore need of family time, but they still left some food aside for Arthur to eat in case he woke up in the middle of the night.

After a quiet night of playing cards by candlelight and retelling stories of their separated childhoods, they retired for the night as well.

With an unsatisfied sigh, Francis couldn’t fall asleep.

* * *

Francis jolted when he suddenly heard creaking in the dead of night. His heart began pounding when the creaking followed the familiar rhythm of slow footsteps, and remembering his sisters were sound asleep on the same floor, he shifted out of bed and reached for his cutlass, ready to protect his family from any potential intruder.

He quietly unlatched his door and swung it open, letting out a sigh when he saw that the hallway was deserted, but just as quickly became alert when he saw golden flames flickering from downstairs.

Avoiding the middle of the floorboards where the creaking came from in the first place, not wanting to alert their intruder, Francis crept down the hall. He briefly peaked into his sisters’ room and was relieved to see their chests rise and fall with deep sleep. Monique was even snoring quietly, prompting a small smile from Francis. How cute.

Francis quietly closed their door and continued on his way downstairs. He noticed the candlelight moving away and he dutifully followed. At the back of his mind, he was already beginning to form a plan of action: immobilize the intruder (or dispose of him if he’s dangerous) and keep the mess to a minimum before carrying the body to the barn he saw out back. The last thing he wanted was to alarm his sisters.

The floors felt cold on Francis’ bare feet and he wished he’d at least had the presence of mind to pull a shirt and pants on. He felt ridiculous stalking a stranger in his underwear.

But it was too late to worry about that now. He saw the intruder stop into the kitchen after walking past numerous paintings and expensive knick knacks that decorated Arthur’s home, which was making Francis grow more and more confused.

But he didn’t have time to contemplate that now as he approached the door to the kitchen. Raising his cutlass, ready to strike, Francis parted the door inwards, and with a quick glance before striking with his sword, he froze.

Arthur froze as well as he came face to face with Francis’ blade.

“Please don’t kill me,” he said meekly.

Francis let out a relieved sigh, setting his sword down. “What are you doing creeping around in the middle of the night?” he chastised, keeping his voice down to not wake the girls up.

“What are _you_ doing creeping around my house in your _knickers_ with a sword!” retorted Arthur in harsh whispers.

Francis blushed, suddenly much more aware of his nudity. He noticed at that moment that Arthur at least had the presence of mind to wear a bathrobe. He also noticed the jug of water and food laid out on the counter.

“I worried an intruder had come in,” he explained with sheepish earnestness.

Arthur puffed up his cheeks in indignation but he considered that as good a reason as any. “At least put some pants on next time,” he murmured, picking up the tray of food and water to bring up to his room, mumbling something under his breath about French perversions. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a migraine to nurse away before morning.”

“Oh. How are you feeling, by the way?” asked Francis worriedly. “You were not well yesterday…”

“I’m fine,” murmured Arthur curtly as he left the kitchen. “If you’re going to talk, then at least walk too.”

Francis followed. “About yesterday. I really am sorry for making you uncomfortable.”

Now it was Arthur’s turn to blush, but the golden light of the flames did a good job hiding it. The two remained quiet as they walked past the girls’ bedroom and down the hall to Arthur’s room where Francis closed the door behind him.

“It’s fine,” whispered Arthur, bringing the tray of food to his desk. “I wasn’t much better… I shouldn’t have drunk so much, and I said stupid things…”

“No,” frowned Francis, wondering how much Arthur remembered this time. “You may have been rude, but nothing you said was stupid.”

Arthur averted his eyes as he pretended to concentrate on the food in front of him. He remembered quite painfully what he’d asked Francis to do and that he refused him.

“It’s in the past now. It doesn’t matter,” he said dismissively.

Now it was Francis’ turn to feel brushed off. He gave Arthur a hard look, letting him eat and drink while letting the silence build between them, growing more awkward.

“Would you like some?” offered Arthur, feeling guilty now.

Francis shook his head. “Well,” he sighed, “since we’re not in danger, I guess I’ll go back to bed.”

“Doesn’t look like you’re sleeping much,” mumbled Arthur. “Is the bed uncomfortable?”

“The bed is fine,” murmured Francis. “The bed isn’t the problem.”

“It’s me, isn’t it?”

Francis looked up at Arthur. He was surprised by the genuine worry he saw in his green eyes.

“Yes.”

“How can I make it better?” he asked. “Your friendship means so much to me, Francis. I hate leaving it like this.”

“Then be honest with me,” said Francis, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “No more of this noble shit where you pretend like there’s nothing between us. Is there nothing between us?”

Arthur flinched, feeling like those words came out harsher than intended. “There is,” he confessed quietly.

“There is what?” pushed Francis.

“There is… something… between us.”

“And it’s very new to me, but it’s been there all along for you, hasn’t it?” continued Francis, his eyes sharp as they pinned Arthur in place.

Hating being under his scrutiny, Arthur averted his eyes. Gritting his teeth, he spat out, “Yes.”

Francis exhaled slowly. “I understand why you hide it,” he assured. “They’d kill us if they found out. And you have a position in society to uphold.”

“I don’t care about that,” Arthur harshly replied. “It has never been about that for me.”

Francis shrugged. “In any case, we’ll talk about this another time. It’s the dead of night.”

“No better time to talk about it. It’s the dead of night,” replied Arthur. “Sophie and Monique are asleep. No one is on the roads and no one will come knocking at my door. It’s the dead of night. And we’re the only ones awake. So let’s be honest with each other, shall we?”

Francis sat back in his chair with a sigh, running a tired hand over his face. “What do you want from me?”

Arthur noticed how tired Francis was and felt a pang of worry. “Why aren’t you able to sleep?” he asked seriously.

Francis shrugged again, having no answer. Arthur let out a breath. “Get in bed,” he said quietly, nodding towards his own bed. “I’ll join soon.”

Francis was taken aback. “Uh, Arthur--”

“Not to _do_ anything,” snapped the Englishman. “Because I swear if you touch me, I’ll kick your arse out.”

Francis let out a laugh. Deciding not to argue, he got up to quietly slip under the sheets of Arthur’s large bed, his cutlass by his bedside. He settled in, trying to sleep. He wasn’t sure how much time passed before he noticed the light go out and the bed sink at his back. Arthur was true to his word and kept a small distance between their backs.

And at that moment, content in the knowledge that everyone was safe, he fell sound asleep. When he woke up again, it was to sunlight streaming in through the large windows and Arthur’s deep breathing against his neck. They still weren’t touching, but Arthur’s head rested between their pillows. Francis leaned up on one elbow, noticing that Arthur had left the bathrobe on the end of the bed, revealing a long, pink scar across his ribs that looked like it would’ve been painful while it was still fresh.

He must have felt Francis looking at him because Arthur jolted as he woke, taking in a deep morning breath. He brought his hands up to rub at his tired eyes which have yet to open. A faint smile crossed Francis’ lips watching him awaken, a distant thought creeping its way forward: he could get used to this.

The faint smile turned into an amused one as he watched Arthur stretch under the blankets, cat like and lithe. “Quit staring,” grumbled Arthur, sleep still lagging in his voice.

“Was just noticing this,” said Francis, pointing at the scar on his chest to hide his grin. “Looks painful.”

“Some bastard named Jack,” said Arthur as an only explanation before rolling onto his stomach and away from Francis, exhaling deeply as he fought off the last dregs of sleep.

“Another pirate?”

“Another bloody soldier,” mumbled Arthur. “Picked a fight with me for being promoted before him. Git thinks that because he’s older, he’s entitled to shite.”

Francis snorted quietly. “We both know there’s more to you than your rank and wealth.”

“Not everyone can be bothered to look that deep,” sighed Arthur, face buried in his pillow.

Francis looked down at him thoughtfully before quietly calling, “Arthur?”

“Hm?”

“Kiss me.”

The request came so quietly that Arthur thought he might have misheard. He glanced up at Francis, eyes silently observing his features to see how serious he was.

Francis’ heart was pounding wildly in his chest. He knew this was a dangerous situation he had put himself in but he was tired of hiding, tired of waiting, and tired of watching Arthur ignore this part of himself.

He knew better than to expect Arthur to actually kiss him. He knew better than to ask, getting his hopes up. He simply knew better.

Which is why he was all the more surprised when Arthur leaned up on his elbows, quick and sneaky as he planted his lips firmly against Francis’ own. He was too stunned by the sudden gesture to think, let alone return the kiss so it remained painfully short as Arthur pulled away. And then seeming embarrassed, he slipped out of bed and started dressing himself.

“The girls will be awake soon. They can’t see us like this,” he said in answer to Francis’ questioning eyes.

“Right,” murmured Francis, pouting as he slipped out of bed, picked up his cutlass, and disappeared into his own room.

The morning passed like nothing happened. They sat down and had breakfast with the girls, Arthur hid himself in his study and Francis helped his sisters with the chores around the house. They sat down for dinner again, and played more card games, sharing a bottle of wine between the four of them before retiring for the night once again.

Francis dared to venture even farther that night. Remembering their previous night and their morning, he felt compelled to try more, even if it killed him. Despite everyone retiring to their own rooms that night, Francis was not about to give up easily. He waited a few hours, being sure that his sisters were fast asleep before going to check on Arthur.

But his host wasn’t in his room. It was dark and the bed was still made from that day, which told Francis that Arthur hadn’t retired for the night yet after all. Knowing there weren’t too many places where he could be hiding, Francis pulled on some pants and stockings before searching for him.

He wasn’t anywhere on the main floor; that was easy to see. Francis considered venturing outside to see if he was doing something in the barn, but he couldn’t imagine what he would be doing in there in the middle of the night.

Then he remembered the study that was supposedly top secret.

Francis went back upstairs to gently knock on the study door. But no one answered.

Now he was truly beginning to worry.

“What’re you doing?” came a loud whisper and Francis spun around to see Arthur standing at his bedroom door.

Francis let out a startled breath. “You weren’t in your room two minutes ago, so I went looking for you,” he said.

“Your concern is cute, but unnecessary. Just had a bit of paperwork to get out of the way,” said Arthur, going inside his room, but leaving the door half-open.

That was all the invitation Francis needed. He slipped inside behind Arthur, and saw a candle glowing faintly on the bedside.

“Was there something you wanted?” asked Arthur.

“Just another decent night’s sleep,” he said casually, hoping it would be enough of a hint for Arthur.

Arthur seemed to blush in the soft lighting and bit his lip a moment before nodding. He shrugged off his bathrobe before slipping under the covers.

Francis grew giddy as he slipped under the soft blankets as well. Just like the night before, the two more or less kept to their sides, avoiding any _obvious_ skin contact.

But this wasn’t enough for Francis.

He glanced at Arthur just as he was turning to sleep on his stomach, his fluffed pillow cradled between his arms to support his head. Francis turned on his side to face him. “Arthur?” he called in just the faintest whisper.

“Hm?”

“Is there nothing more that you want?”

He must have sounded pleading enough, because Arthur turned his head to face him. “There might be,” he admitted quietly. “But I wouldn’t even know where to begin, nevermind how to… progress,” he said meekly.

Francis couldn’t help smiling warmly. “We can figure it out together,” he reminded softly, leaning in closer, but still without touching, not wanting to cross any invisible boundaries.

“You can’t seriously have me believe that you don’t know what to do either,” scoffed Arthur.

Francis didn’t answer, simply letting his gaze wander over Arthur’s marred skin. The man may be of a more slender build, but it was easy to see lithe muscles under the paleness.

“Let’s start with where we left off this morning,” suggested Francis softly.

Arthur blushed much more noticeably, even in the dim light. “I’m not much of a kisser,” he frowned.

“You’ve never kissed a man before. It’s natural,” Francis tried to assure.

“No, I mean… I… I never kissed anyone…”

Francis raised a brow before smiling softly. “You’re too cute,” he cooed, leaning in that much closer, keeping a safe but still intimate distance between them to not go too far too fast for Arthur.

He took his time leaning in, giving Arthur every opportunity to pull away as he pressed tender little kisses to his cheek, his temple, consistently and repeatedly until Arthur shifted slightly, giving Francis more room to kiss along his jaw, to the corner of his mouth, and finally, to his lips. He was careful to not go too far, to not be too rough or too demanding in his affections. He simply wanted to help Arthur… blossom.

He didn’t predict how Arthur opened up at that moment. He turned on his side, prolonging the kiss without moving his lips--the poor man truly had no idea how to kiss and that just made Francis grin with amusement. Arthur wrapped his arms around Francis’ neck, pressing his chest against him.

“Not so hard, right?” smiled Francis teasingly.

Arthur didn’t dignify that with a response. With an embarrassed pout, he lowered himself, burying his face in the crook of Francis’ neck, breathing him in a moment and closing his eyes. He couldn’t believe how vulnerable he was allowing himself to be, but he was more afraid to stop.

With complete understanding, Francis simply held him close as they both settled into the night. He knew Arthur deserved every ounce of his patience. He knew the young man was worth it.


	20. The Hunt Begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, guys! My beta is going through some hectic life changes at the moment but here it is, finally!
> 
> And chapter 21 is being drafted up at the moment. Since it's being written sort of as I find motivation/willpower, it's taking me quite a while so I can't give you an exact timeline of when to expect it... Sorry about that :(

The very next morning, Francis was surprised to wake up and find Arthur was still latched onto him. The two of them haven’t budged one bit and Francis’ arm under Arthur had long since gone numb and he dreaded the pain that would come once he would get it back and be able to stretch and get blood pumping back into his fingers.

But he hesitated to wake Arthur and get him to move--he could clearly feel Arthur’s morning erection pressing against his hip and Francis feared the nobleman would be embarrassed from it and shy away from Francis, needing to be warmed up to his affections all over again.

Those worries soon dissipated as Arthur stirred regardless, the same as he did the day before, stretching out cat-like so his full form was pressed against Francis’ side and the Frenchman couldn’t help the blush that crept over his cheeks and the heat that pooled in his groin.

He was too distracted by how cute Arthur looked rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“You reek,” drawled Arthur, and whatever romantic inclinations Francis felt up until then flew right out the window.

“Good morning to you too,” he mumbled with a pout, rolling out from under Arthur to head back to his own room.

Arthur reached up to gripped Francis’ wrist to hold him there. “Come back tonight,” he said meekly, averting his eyes.

“Of course,” said Francis, his tone dismissive as though that should have been obvious. He slipped his shirt back on and left for his room, leaving Arthur alone in bed. Half-naked and erect.

Arthur bit his lip as he glanced at his closed bedroom door. He pulled the blankets up to cover himself, but his right hand wandered under, finding his length and feeling himself.

He tried his very best to keep quiet.

* * *

At breakfast that morning, Arthur was quiet while Francis talked with his sisters. He worried that he could somehow smell what he’d done despite the fact that he’d washed himself since then. He noticed that Francis had also cleaned up and took care to trim his beard.

“Francis, how long will you be staying?” asked Sophie hopefully as they ate.

“Oh, maybe another few days or so,” he answered with a sip of his coffee.

Arthur felt a lump form in his throat.

“Oh, that’s not long at all,” frowned Monique. “We hoped you would stay at least until Master Arthur leaves for Bristol.”

“I’m afraid that’s too long without work for me. I’m sure my men are currently sleeping off their London hangovers and getting eager to work again,” he tried to explain.

“Oh, right… We forgot you came to claim your contracts,” noted Sophie.

“And to see my two favorite sisters,” he cooed playfully.

“We’re you’re only sisters,” droned Monique in a sharp, warning tone, causing Francis to chuckle.

The lump in Arthur’s throat grew seeing the siblings together. “I’ll retire to my study,” he mumbled, standing to excuse himself and leave them to their family affairs.

Francis watched him leave with worry. Once Arthur had left the room, he turned to his sisters and asked, “What does he do in the study?”

Both girls looked away as though they were caught doing something guilty. “It’s… very personal to Arthur. If he won’t tell you what’s in the study, then it isn’t within our rights to tell you,” answered Monique.

Francis couldn’t help feeling a little hurt that Arthur didn’t trust him with this. “So why is it that the two of you know what he’s hiding?”

“Oh, we help him,” said Sophie, before instantly regretting the slip up and raised her hand to cover her mouth, afraid she could say more.

“What?” he asked in a warning tone. “How do you help him?”

“It’s nothing, Francis. Sometimes he forgets to eat or drink while he’s up there so we bring him food and water,” assured Monique.

But Francis didn’t miss the scolding look that the blond gave the brunette. “And? What else?”

Sophia fidgeted with the sleeves of her dress. Monique sighed. “He asked us to keep our eyes and ears open. That’s all. We’re not in danger, so stop fretting,” snapped Monique.

Francis raised his hands placating. “All right. I’ll talk to him myself later,” he said.

The girls looked nervous as he said this, but they didn’t protest. They got up to clean after breakfast, leaving Francis to do as he pleased.

Francis, of course, automatically went upstairs to find Arthur in his study, unsurprised to find the door closed.

“Arthur?” he called, knocking on the door gently.

It took a moment before Francis eventually heard a chair scraping against the floorboards, thinking maybe Arthur was hesitating to let him in. But soon enough, the door swung ajar just enough for Arthur to peer out.

“Yes?” he replied.

“May I come in?”

‘Why?”

“Maybe I can help,” Francis reminded. “We’re supposed to be partners working together, after all.”

“This is personal, _not_ business,” replied Arthur pointedly.

“So I’m told,” sighed Francis. “But what could possibly require so much secrecy? Do you still not trust me?”

Arthur flinched slightly at that. “This isn’t about trust,” he said meekly.

“Then let me help,” Francis encouraged further. “I promise I won’t speak a peep of this to anyone else.”

Arthur clearly looked torn as he considered this. He seemed to have come to a decision and let the door swing open the rest of the way, it’s hinges creaking and letting Francis pass through.

And then he just as quickly stopped in his tracks, overwhelmed by the charts, notes, and diagrams that seemed to cover every surface of the walls, some even sprawled on the floor, a hurricane of information no matter which way you looked.

“Watch your step,” said Arthur, going back to his desk where he seemed to be taking notes.

On one wall, Francis noticed a drawing of a Venezuelan pirate he had only seen once before, and heard of since many times. His blood ran cold when he realized what Arthur had been doing up here this entire time, why he seemed so uncomfortable seeing Francis interact with his sisters.

“Arthur, this isn’t right,” he murmured quietly.

“Oh? And who are you to pass judgement on me?” snapped the Englishman.

“No, I mean… This is _obsessive_ ,” Francis tried to explain. “Your brother left of his own choosing, why are you hunting him down like this?”

“My brother was a _child_. A _drunk_ child. That pirate obviously tricked him into following him out at sea and my brother has been his prisoner since!” he argued.

Francis bit his lip then, realizing he wouldn’t be able to reason with him.

“If you won’t listen, then I won’t bother arguing. Regardless of how much time you waste away in here, I leave the day after tomorrow,” he decided, stepping out of the study and leaving Arthur to his woes.

It didn’t make Francis happy to leave Arthur to such a fruitless, harmful obsession, but for the moment, he didn’t see a way out of it. More than anything, Francis feared what Arthur might do once he finds his estranged brother--whether he intended to play judge or saviour--and decided that he wouldl try to steer him off Armado’s path as best he could until he can find out more about Arthur’s intentions.

Because like himself, as far as pirates go, Armado was a good one. The children he brings into his crew, he _saves_ and _fathers_ far better than their biological families ever have, and Francis wasn’t about to jeopardize that.

And sadly, he clearly recalled that Alistair had _nothing_ good to say about _any_ of his family members. With Armado, he was able to live out his dream of studying the cosmos and to learn about their wonders, and he returned the gift by navigating for Armado. There was nothing tyrannical about their relationship as Arthur seemed to believe. But until Arthur was willing to listen to what Francis had witnessed himself, he wouldn’t waste his breath.

Predictably, Arthur spent the day in his study. Francis chose to occupy his mind with some hunting, going out into the English countryside with Arthur’s horse, his guns, his ammunition, and went in search of small game for dinner. It was a far more pleasant experience than hunting in the cold Northern winters.

By dinner time, Sophie and Monique had prepared two fat turkeys and a hog. It was a lot of food for just the four of them, but it was appropriate given that Francis was leaving soon and it would give them plenty of food to last them until their trip to Bristol without much more cooking. Although they had told Arthur dinner was ready, he had never come down to eat with them. They brought him dinner to his study and left him alone, still.

After another night of playing games and chatting softly, they retired to their own rooms, wishing each other a good night and sweet dreams. Francis felt a sting seeing that Arthur was still in his study, still ignoring them. He began considering all sorts of ways to get Arthur to come out of hiding, including reminding him that it was just plain rude for him to hide and work like this when he had company over, especially since Francis expected to leave soon. In the end, he decided that Arthur must be avoiding him because of their latest intimacies and that he frankly deserved better than some squeamish, pretentious brat.

Francis went to bed in his own room and his own bed, sleeping naked as was his usual since he didn’t expect to share his bed this night. Although it was his own decision, he felt something like heartbreak over it regardless.

Which is why, despite his efforts, Francis couldn’t sleep. His ears were peeled on the door just across from him where the study was, waiting for it to open, to hear the tell-tale creaks in the floor that would inform him when Arthur was done. But hours passed and Arthur still never came out.

Now Francis was beginning to worry. This wasn’t normal. Of course, he had never seenArthur behave like this, but it couldn’t _possibly_ be normal. With tired limbs, Francis slid out of bed and put on a robe before going to investigate.

Unsurprisingly, the study door was closed, and Arthur’s bedroom was open and dark. Francis walked over to try the doorknob, and it let out in his grip, letting him swing the door open to the lamplit room.

“Arthur?” he called quietly as he stepped in, only to find Arthur draped over his desk, rousing as though he had been sleeping there for hours.

“What?” he grumbled tiredly.

“What are you doing?” sighed Francis. “Let it go and come to bed. Your work will still be here but I might not be,” he added more curtly than intended.

Arthur glanced up, giving Francis a pained look. “You’re right… I’ve been rude today,” he said quietly, getting up and stretching before making his way out with the lamp in hand.

Francis blushed in embarrassment from his slipup, surprised to see Arthur comply so easily. “Yes, well… If you’re avoiding me, then I’ll just leave you alone,” he murmured, leaving ahead of him to go back to his own room.

He audibly heard Arthur sigh behind him. As he was about to close the door to his room to deal with his turmoil by himself, he was surprised to find the door hitting something firm as Arthur toed his way in.

“I’m not avoiding you because of _that_ ,” he tried to assure, his gaze averted as he rubbed a hand to the back of his head. “Just… seeing you with your sisters… I can never have that sort of bond with my own family, and I guess I got jealous… I’m sorry.”

Francis frowned. He motioned Arthur inside and closed the door. “And are you hunting your brother down like an animal because you want to rekindle some sort of family bond?” he asked, already knowing the answer to be ‘no.’

Arthur’s cheeks turned red. “This is why I never wanted you to know,” he snapped. “You would never understand, what with your perfect little family. You wouldn’t know what it’s like to have a tyrant for a father or have your worth as a human being weighed against every single decision you make!”

Francis flinched. “Rather than patronize me, why don’t you try to help me understand?”

“Oh, please, you already know that my father was an abusive drunk that threatened to disown us with the slightest infractions,” snapped Arthur, keeping his voice down to not wake the girls up. “Would it put your mind at ease knowing that he added lashings to that when Alistair ran away? Because clearly just _threatening_ us wasn’t enough, he had to make an example of my brother. The rest of us lived through hell. Look at me, working as a perfect little soldier boy while my sisters are married off to fops that were already grown men the day they were born. My youngest brother became a doctor if only because he could find work just about anywhere and ran off to Africa to do whatever he wants there instead of living under our father’s abuse. Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

Francis further recoiled. He honestly couldn’t say he could imagine living like that, and he thought living in that Boston boarding school as a prisoner was hard.

“Why didn’t you do like your brothers?” he asked quietly, hesitant.

“Because I’m not a coward and being a naval officer is really the best way for me to keep track of my older brother,” he answered with a tired sigh. “If there’s one thing my father was ever right about concerning how he raised us is that family is everything. And mine lost his way somewhere down the road. I plan on bringing him back.”

“Your brother doesn’t want to be found,” reminded Francis.

“You’d rather he die at sea a criminal?” Arthur asked pointedly.

“It’s a risk we all acknowledge when we start a life of piracy,” murmured Francis.

“Yes, well, I’d rather not suffer the consequences when Alistair is found hanging from the gallows and all the officers recognize him as a bloody Kirkland,” snapped Arthur, walking away to change for bed.

Francis sighed quietly to himself. “Should I leave you?” he asked, unsure if this was a good time for their canoodling after all.

Arthur froze in the middle of taking off his shirt, his expression turned to sorrow as he thought. “I… I would like it if you’d let me stay,” he said earnestly.

Francis nodded. He set the lamp on the nightstand and slid into bed, facing away to give Arthur privacy while he undressed.

A moment later, he felt the bed sink at his back and an arm wrap around his middle. Arthur’s hot breath warmed the back of Francis’ neck and that, more than anything, is what helped Francis drift off to sleep.

When they awoke again in the morning, Francis’ first thought was of disappointment at not feeling Arthur’s erection against his backside. In fact, he didn’t feel Arthur on him at all. He rolled onto his back and was relieved to find the Englishman still in bed, except that he now lay on his stomach with his face buried in a pillow. Francis smiled softly realizing that this must be how Arthur sleeps most naturally.

And then he felt a pang realizing why that might be, seeing the pale criss-cross of pink scars across his back.

_Would it put your mind at ease knowing that he added lashings to that when Alistair ran away?_

Arthur must have developed a habit of sleeping on his stomach to allow his back to heal.

Francis already knew that Arthur was stronger than he looked, but this was on a different level altogether.

Francis was startled from his thoughts when Arthur stirred in that same way he has done every morning thus far--a big gulp of air and a feline stretch of his back and limbs. Francis could never grow tired of watching it.

“You’re staring again,” mumbled Arthur through a yawn.

“Sorry. It’s just so mesmerizing seeing you move like that.”

“Creep,” grumbled Arthur, letting himself fall lax against the soft sheets again as he rested, letting the last dregs of sleep vanish on their own. He was on vacation after all.

A small smile tugged on Francis’ lips. He leaned in closer, snaking an arm under Arthur to pull him to his chest and press tender kisses to his shoulder and the top of his back. Arthur only gave the slightest whine but otherwise let Francis do as he please.

After a while, when they both settled down to simply hold each other lazily, Arthur finally gathered up enough courage to ask, “Francis?”

“Hm?”

“Help me find him.”

It took Francis a moment to unravel who Arthur was referring to. “I still don’t think it’s right,” he murmured.

“I don’t need your help, _morally_ , Francis. It’s your resources I need,” said Arthur, sitting up against the headboard. 

“I know that the British Empire has their sights on Armado. I want to be the one that gets the commission, but in order to do that, I need to present them with information that will make me a clear winner for it. Can you give me that information?”

Francis sat up as well, stalling his answer. “I could,” he murmured.  
“But will you?” he asked. “Please, Francis, it’s important to me.”

Francis glanced up and instantly regretted locking eyes with Arthur. He had a pleading glance that shot right through him. He knew he would later hate himself if he refused him. “Alright… Alright, I’ll help you, but my men won’t work for free,” he reminded.

“Money is not an issue,” reminded Arthur, steeling himself. “I will get you the money you need to feed, clothe, and pay off your men’s discretion on the issue. Anything.”

Francis sighed inwardly. He couldn’t help feeling a bad sort of premonition about all of this, but he wanted to help put Arthur’s mind at ease. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Arthur’s, and with that simple gesture, their pact was sealed.


	21. In Sickness and in Health

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I googled wedding vows for future chapter titles and they are not as romantic sounding as one would like.

Despite knowing that Francis would leave the next day, the two didn’t venture much further than they already have. Arthur got cold feet and with a sigh, Francis left him in peace. Another time, then.

And a few weeks after that, Arthur moved to his new townhome in Bristol with Sophie and Monique. He sent a letter to Francis in order to inform him of their new address of business.

Arthur was pleased to find that it was much easier to track Alistair from within England. At the moment, he knew that his brother was sailing somewhere in the Mediterranean Sea, but he couldn’t quite pinpoint _where_ beyond the Herculean Pillars. Of course he wondered if Francis could find out more, but he knew his friend would be busy chasing his contracts for a little while.

That meant that it was up to Arthur to get to the bottom of it.

So imagine his joyous surprise when he sailed along Spain’s coast and saw a massive warship that did not belong to the Spanish Queen. It certainly looked like a Spanish model and it had a Spanish naval flag flying from its mast, but Arthur long since learned not to trust appearances, thanks to Francis.

With a quick peek through his eyeglass, Arthur knew this ship did not belong to the Queen seeing not a single one of them wearing a uniform.

Nonetheless, there was nothing Arthur could do to investigate further, not without express orders to do so. He grit his teeth and let out a frustrated groan over his discovery. He would write a report about it and hope the admirals let him pursue the stolen warship outside Spanish waters. The last thing he wanted was to provoke a war between their kingdoms.

Still, at least until nightfall, Arthur kept an eye on the ship and when it docked in a port and didn’t move from there, he was satisfied. He wondered if this was a regular pit stop for these pirates and decided to try investigating further over the coming weeks.

It was not much, but it was certainly more than he had deduced since winter.

And as weeks passed, between various assignments, outposts, and manhunts, Arthur made a note of every suspicious ship he found in the Mediterranean Sea. Of all the pirate ships he saw from afar, the Spanish warship was the only one that seemed likely to be the vessel Alistair boarded. Eventually, it became the _only_ ship Arthur continuously observed, the rest simply reported to his superiors to be “cleaned up” at a later time by privateers in order to keep their own hands clean.

And with each passing week, Arthur waited and waited for a letter from Francis with perhaps more news of Alistair. As the summer began to drag on, Arthur grew more and more impatient at the lack of news from the Frenchman.

By early fall, his impatience and frustration slowly grew into dread. Since they had formed their partnership, they have never gone this long without seeing each other. The contracts continued to trickle in slowly, each bounty collected, but Arthur couldn’t be sure Francis was the one collecting them.

He was beginning to worry that something had happened to Francis.

* * *

The world swayed around him. In the darkness, Francis felt sickness creep up in those few times where it felt like it was swirling upside down, falling into blackness, anticipating a hard landing on wooden planks. But the impact never came, only leaving a sense of dread that maybe next time will be the one where he falls face-first against the floor. The sea’s swaying used to soothe Francis, but now he damned her, wishing she would be still again, if only so his head would stop swimming.

He pulled the blankets a little closer to his chin, curling up against the furs, but despite their thickness, his limbs still shuddered, making it impossible for him to sleep. His body shivered with a cold sweat, making the furs and fabric stick to his skin while it burned with a fever the seabreeze failed to temper. He hoped their ship would arrive in the New World soon because at this point, Francis wasn’t so sure he would survive. As it was, his men steered clear of him, not wanting to catch whatever it was that was making Francis sick, and it only made him feel so much more alone. Of course, he was used to being alone since Mathieu died, but being alone in death was an entirely different feeling that Francis didn’t want to get used to.

Just thinking about Mathieu made memories flash to the forefront of his mind--snow, a scarlet carpet of blood, shattered bones, a matted head of curly blond hair plastered to his pale skin, a cluster of deep, large pawprints leading away, creating a pink trail to the riverbank.

A fresh wave of nausea washed over Francis, forcing him to bury the memory back down. His head leaned off the side of the head in case he retched, but the movement alone made his world go black with unconsciousness.

Days and nights blended together, always spent in the darkness of his ship’s belly. The only time he was broken from his melancholy, delirium, and coughing fits was when one of his men was brave enough to bring him food, although Francis found it difficult to stomach too much of it, and the lantern-light hurt his eyes.

The sooner they arrived home, the sooner he could see a doctor. But with the amount of blood he coughed up with every new day, he feared he may not make it…

When his mind was clear enough, Francis sat at his desk and scratched out a letter addressed to his sisters in Bristol. After everything their family had been through, his sisters deserved to know what happened to the last of their kin. Within the letter, he wrote a will and testament declaring that all his wealth and properties belonged to them. He trusted that Arthur would have the decency of allowing his sisters to inherit the warship without declaring it as stolen property.

He didn’t see any point in writing Arthur a letter. In his lucidity, he could see that a correspondence would be unwelcomed, remembering quite clearly that Arthur did not want a scandal, especially for someone he didn’t have any affections for. It was not Francis’ place to ruin that for him.

Thinking about Arthur left a sick feeling in the pit of Francis’ stomach, prompting him to lay back down in bed, his letter to his sisters sealed in the top drawer of his desk. Before a new wave of nausea could sweep over him, Francis let unconsciousness drift over him, pushing him into darkness once again.

Francis felt relieved when his ship finally docked in Montreal, his men busy securing the vessel. Francis put his seal and signature on all the contracts and gave them to a handful of his men, sending them off (along with their prisoners) to be delivered to one of the English forts for their payment. The other men stored their plunders into their hideout.

Now alone, Francis made his slow, painful way off the boat, heading straight to his horse to get home, his letter in his pocket. He was sure he was going to die once he’d made it home and laid down in bed and he was determined to go peacefully and quietly. After so many months of reeling sickness, he simply was too tired to fight it anymore.

His men, evidently, did not share his sentiment.

A few days after Francis arrived home, there was a knock at his door. Francis was too weak to bother and ignored it, certain that they would believe him not home and go away before long.

But the knocks persisted.

And persisted.

Francis groaned at the incessant knocking but he had no energy to move. Finally, he heard the door below him creak open and a slow panic crept into his heart. Fuelled with adrenaline, Francis reached for his cutlass to face his intruder.

The intruder did not move slowly, or quietly. He soon made his way up to the stairs to the attic room where Francis slept and Francis squinted through his hazy sight at the man that appeared at the top of the staircase.

“Are you Mr. Bonnefoy?” asked the older man, setting his briefcase down on the floor. He didn’t move past the staircase, his gaze locked on the sword in Francis’ hand before also glancing over Francis, noting his pallor and the sweaty glean of his skin.

“Who the fuck are you?” he managed to croak.

“I… I’m a physician. My name is Alexandre Sauvé. A man named Jacques told me you were ill,” informed the man, reaching into his suitcase and pulling out a mask, showing it to Francis as though wordlessly asking his permission to put it on.

Francis blinked in surprise, nodding at the man. Once the doctor had adorned his mask, he walked closer to Francis, his suitcase in hand. He motioned for Francis to sit down, and Francis didn’t see a reason to protest, doing as told and setting his cutlass aside.

“When did you first show symptoms?” asked the doctor, his voice sounding muffled and tinny through the mask. He took a round, wooden thing out of his suitcase and pressed it against Francis’ chest, pressing his own ear against the other end. Francis watched him curiously before shaking himself from his blank state.

“Two months ago,” he answered.

The doctor hummed. “Cough for me,” he instructed.

Francis did as told, coughing out a rattly sound that echoed in his chest. The doctor hummed again.

“Any spots or rashes?” he then asked.

Francis shook his head.

“Your skin feels hot to the touch. Does it feel hot?”

Francis shook his head again. “I feel cold…”

Another hum. “Are you coughing up blood?”

Francis thought a moment, trying to remember clearly before shaking his head again.

“Anyone else sick on your ship?”

Francis shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of.”

“Where were you two months ago?”

“In… In England. Near Canterbury,” he answered, growing more confused.

The doctor hummed again, this time coming to a decision. “Eastern England has recently had an outbreak of the White Death. I think you may have caught it there during your travels.”

Francis gave the old man a confused look, panic beginning to well inside him. Were his sisters sick too?”

“Why am I the only one affected of my ship?” he asked, incredulous.

“Do you smoke? Do you engage in sexual intercourse more than once a week? Do you use drugs?” he asked.

Francis blinked at the man as all this information filtered to his brain. “I smoke,” he said carefully.

“Then you can blame your bad lungs for your recent illness,” informed the doctor. “Your friend has already paid for your treatment, so you need not worry about that. I will return tomorrow with the necessary medicine and equipment.” With that, the man turned and closed his suitcase to walk away.

Francis sat a little stunned, the words “medicine” and “equipment” ringing hollowly in his head. “Do you mean surgery?” he asked worriedly.

“Nothing nearly that invasive,” chuckled Sauvé. “But you will need treatment if you want any hope of surviving. It’s not called the White Death for nothing.”

Francis paled even more hearing that term again. “Thank you,” he nodded to the doctor, and with a nod back, the doctor left, leaving Francis alone in his home once again to sleep through the haze and the pain.

* * *

By the time the first snow fell, Arthur had had enough of waiting. He packed his bags and took his ship and crew, sailing to one of the British outposts along the Hudson’s Bay, only he didn't intend to get much work done. He was going to look for Francis and try to find out what has happened to his friend.

Besides, he had news to bring to him and it didn’t feel quite right to deliver the news through a letter. No, he much preferred announcing the news in person.

It took Arthur a while, but he eventually managed to find his way back to Francis’ home on the outskirts of Montréal. Unfortunately, it was the only location where Arthur could think to look for Francis, his old friend otherwise a complete mystery to Arthur. If it weren’t for Monique and Sophie, Arthur wouldn’t know a thing about Francis’ private life.

And Arthur wishes they could be the sort of old friends that knew everything about each other, but they simply didn’t have the time for such a luxury. Not to mention that Francis outright hated him for most of the time they knew each other, and Arthur knew it--there was never a need for a confession of it, nor did he want to confront Francis about it. It wasn’t worth addressing.

He only hoped that their relationship can grow forward. Arthur had to admit that not hearing from Francis in half a year put a damper on these hopes. But one of them had to be the bigger person and Arthur didn’t feel that it was beneath him to seek Francis out first.

When he saw Francis’ home in the distance, he quickened his horse’s pace to a canter, anticipation and anxiousness pushing him forward faster. Before he could consciously think of getting off his mare, Arthur was already climbing up the steps of his porch and knocking briskly against its wooden panels. He leaned from foot to foot, his anxiousness growing the longer it took now that he was so close. He glanced around the farmland, looking for signs of Francis being home and it was while he had his back to the door that it swung inwards, startling Arthur out of his investigations. He instinctively turned towards the front door, finding Francis in its entrance with a displeased expression.

With a quick look over him, Arthur noticed his pale skin, the dark, dehydrated circles under his eyes and the gauntness of his features. Arthur could’ve sworn he didn’t look so thin the last time he saw his friend.

“Francis, you look… well,” greeted Arthur hesitantly. “I haven’t heard from you all season, so I thought I’d come and see how you’re doing.”

“How kind of you,” groused Francis, his voice hoarse with disuse. He stepped back into the darkness of his home and left the door open, welcoming Arthur inside, but the Englishman couldn’t help feeling that Francis did so begrudgingly.

“Is this a bad time?” frowned Arthur, letting himself inside after Francis.

“It certainly hasn’t been a good time for a long time,” snapped Francis in reply, sitting in an overstuffed armchair by the fire.

By the look of his house, Arthur guessed that Francis likely lived in that chair for a few weeks at least thus far. “What’s going on with you?” he asked worriedly, sliding his weapons’ belt off and leaving it by the door--he was certain he wouldn’t need it all the way out here.

“Oh, so _now_ you care to ask,” sneered Francis. “And here I thought you were only here on business.”

“Well,” murmured Arthur sheepishly, put off by Francis’ hostility, “I’m here for that too, but I’m _here_ because I was worried about you.” He approached the armchair by the fire carefully, as though nearing a feral animal. “I haven’t heard from you in so long, I feared the sea may have finally taken you.”

“She might as well have,” snorted Francis with the sort of humour belonging to a man that believes himself dead already.

Arthur narrowed his eyes at him. “What’s gotten into you?” he asked. “Believe me, I’m relieved to see you well but you act as though I’ve sentenced you to death.”

“You haven’t,” assured Francis. “So why don’t we get to the point of your visit.”

Arthur eyed him skeptically, but he came to sit across from him. “You make even gloating feel terrible,” he murmured.

“So you came here to gloat,” gasped Francis with feigned surprise, seeping with sarcasm. “What a relief!”

Arthur frowned. “Well… I haven’t heard word from you regarding Alistair, so I’m assuming you and your men have not found him. In any case, you need not worry--the British have located him,” informed Arthur proudly.

“Ah yes, another great relief,” mumbled Francis with a roll of his eyes. “I’ll send word to cancel the search parties as he is clearly no longer a priority.”

“Don’t be absurd. Capturing Alistair is now your _only_ priority!” exclaimed Arthur. “You already know I won’t spare any expenses. He’s still outside my jurisdiction but you’re not bound by our laws. Find him and I will make sure you are richly paid.”

Francis scowled. With a tired, steely gaze, he skewered Arthur down with one glance. “I do not spend my life following your orders, fetching your toys, and barking at your enemies,” he snarled through grit teeth. “You come here to gloat and command me but I am _not_ yours to command. I left your home a friend and yet you have been here a solid five minutes and not once did you think to ask me how I am or how I’ve been!”

Arthur recoiled at his outbursts. Something dark and viscous began to grow in his core, causing his heart to beat irregularly. “Francis… I’m sorry if I’ve offended you,” he said sincerely, taken aback by the sudden harshness. “Of course I see you as a very dear friend, but I assumed that if something were the matter, you would have told me as much instead of letting it fester quietly.”

“Something indeed has festered,” spat Francis. “I’ve been bedridden with the White Death most of this year and I have given up on the possibility of outliving my illness. My men have tirelessly worked for you without their captain all this time, and yet you failed to show any gratitude towards their hard work, coming only with more orders, more work, and more outrageous demands! I don’t know how often I can urge you to _stop_ this mad quest to find your brother, but you continue to ignore my advice!”

Francis stopped a moment to cough, his chest rattling as phlegm and blood rose to his lips. His cheeks were pinked against his pale skin once his coughing fit was over, blood rushing to his brain to keep him conscious as he stopped breathing. He took a few deep breaths, recollecting himself a moment.

All the while, Arthur watched with worry--he should have seen the signs but he was so self-absorbed in his quest, he failed to recognized what was happening to the Frenchman.

“I have no interest in sending my men off to their deaths,” he wheezed once he’d recovered himself enough. “Find another cow to slaughter. I will not be your toy, not in the eyes of the law, and not in bed. Leave me in peace,” he said, settling back in his chair with a slump.

The conversation was over.

With a heaviness in his chest, Arthur gulped. Unsure what to say, he turned to leave, but stopped in his tracks. The bitterness in Francis’ voice left an acid taste on the tip of Arthur’s tongue, but he clung to the hope of seeing Francis once again and reuniting for so long, that he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him now, not like this.

“No,” answered Arthur stubbornly, coming back to face Francis, this time stooping so to his eye-level.

“Oh, for Chr--Arthur, leave!” shouted Francis.

“You should have _told_ me you were ill! I would have come to you right away and I would have brought the girls along so they could be by your side while you fight this. You’re being stupidly selfish by suffering alone.”

“Oh, _I’m_ the selfish one, here?! You didn’t listen to a word I said, did you?”

“I heard every word. You think I’m an ungrateful, demanding prat and you want nothing to do with me anymore, but damnit, Francis… I care too much about you to just let you die alone.”

Francis huffed with frustration, casting his gaze into the fire and deliberately avoiding Arthur. He had no energy to fight.

Arthur sighed and sat in the armchair across from Francis, uninvited.

“I’ll stay here and oversee your recovery,” he decided.

Francis took a deep breath. He brought his hand up to lean into his palm, covering his quivering lower lip. He hoped his glistening eyes wouldn’t betray him. But after pushing all his crewmen away and avoiding Arthur and his sisters for so long, Francis grew lonely. He grew lonely enough to feel touched by Arthur’s stubborn wish to stick around just a little bit longer.

Although he didn’t say anything, his silence was answer enough for Arthur. He got up to write a letter to be sent to his co-captain.

_Return to Bristol without me. I’m taking leave for personal reasons. Return for me in Spring._

And then he went around the property to start preparations for the long winter ahead.


	22. For Richer, For Poorer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took me so long to post again... I recently got promoted and then summer school started so I've been working 10+ hour days and by the time I get home, I don't have the energy to do anything x.x
> 
> This chapter was written way earlier this month and my beta did go through it.. I just forgot about it until just now T^T so sorry!

Arthur couldn’t tell what had gotten into him to get him to shack up (literally) with Francis for an entire season (dear God). Part of that may have been guilt, part of it may have been lingering attraction, but it certainly wasn’t for Francis’ charm.

The older man barely paid Arthur any attention the entire time. Arguably, he was ignoring Arthur. He never thought it possible for a man to hold a grudge like this before experiencing it first hand from Francis.

But he had made a commitment to help Francis through his illness, no matter how much Francis pushed him away.

The days had a certain monotony to them Arthur had never experienced before in his life. He dressed warmly to chop wood, gathered snow to melt into water, rationed the cured meats and root vegetables that he had bought to last them the winter (not that Francis ate much these days anyway). And most days, if he wasn’t cleaning up after Francis or helping him bathe, he was fixing some crack in the foundations, some leak in the thatched roof, replacing some panels in the barn’s walls, fixing some parts of the fence around the property after he caught a coyote sneaking around the goats.

It was menial work, but it was hard work, and it was far too easy to let his mind wander while working, thinking about the next thing that needed to be dealt with, about what he could say to Francis to patch things up between them as easily as he nailed planks to the barn walls or the roof. Currently, the only times Francis spoke to him was to complain about his pain or to instruct him on how to go about the menial tasks that were beneath Arthur in any other circumstances.

But Arthur was realizing that this was Francis’ first winter season spent home in a long time, and he somehow felt blessed that it was spent with him. Even though Arthur imposed himself on him like this, he was glad that Francis didn’t protest to him being here. Sure, he would complain about his headaches, coughing fits, his light headedness, how he wished he could stand for more than fifteen minutes at a time so he could cook and not endure another bite of Arthur’s atrocious slop or Arthur’s half-assed and amateurish maintenance work around the property that Francis will need to redo when he’s well enough… but he has never protested to Arthur’s company. He was always waiting for the day where Francis would inevitably tell him to fuck off back to the bog that he crawled out of but that day has yet to come. Every day was a new opportunity for a fresh start. Every day, he failed.

But still, every day he refused to give up. He didn’t give up when they were children and he wasn’t about to start now.

“Why don’t you help me cook today?” suggested Arthur, coming back in after feeding the goats.

Francis sat in his armchair, struggling to light his pipe as usual while he watched Arthur brush snow off his jacket with disinterest, a little _putt putt putt_ of feet kicking against the bristled carpet to loosen packed snow from his soles, getting water all over the scratched and muddied floor of his foyer--

“Sounds exhausting,” he sighed, giving up on his pipe and tossing it on the coffee table with a loud, wooden thump.

“I’ll help you to the dinner table. You can sit and help me prep and then you can tell me what to do so it can all be to your liking,” he continued, making his way to the armchair opposite Francis, as usual, letting out a groan as he lowered himself into the plush upholstery.

“Still sounds exhausting,” mumbled Francis, his eyes deliberately fixed anywhere but at Arthur and his flushed cheeks and snow-tipped lashes. The Englishman had torn his richly-made clothes weeks ago and had begun wearing Mathieu’s instead. Sometimes Francis considered mending his ruined clothes himself just so he wouldn’t have to continue seeing him in his brother’s hand-me-downs. “But I’ll try if it means eating something remotely palpable.”

Arthur smiled fondly at him, which wasn’t much of a rare sight anymore; he had no appearances to keep up in this isolated house and it was one of many things that would help Francis feel better over time. “What would you like me to take out?” he asked.

“Get a potato, a carrot, some pork--anything is fine--and whatever herbs and spices we still have left.”

Arthur’s heart pounded at the ‘we’ he slipped in so casually, as though this were his home as well. He got up despite his body’s groaning protests and disappeared into the larder to gather everything on the table. By the time he came out, Francis had already seated himself there.

“Bring me a knife,” he instructed, reaching for the clay containers of spices to sniff and decide what he wants. He eventually settled on basil and thyme, and once Arthur returned with a sharpened knife, he said, “Put the rest of these away,” indicating the rest of the containers before starting to peel and chop the produce set in front of him.

Arthur didn’t argue, didn’t protest. He obeyed Francis’ every request, making Francis wonder over whether his authoritative presence was all just a show.

“Do you miss your home?” he asked suddenly. “Your comrades?" 

“I doubt anyone misses me right now,” he answered matter-of-factly. “At least not in the way you’re thinking.”

“What way do you think I’m thinking?”

“Love,” he answered in the same neutral tone. “But I’m sure the admirals are annoyed I left my post without giving them any notice. I’ll probably be punished for it, like having my pay docked or something.”

Francis frowned, a flare of anger bubbling up. To think, Arthur was putting himself in a position where he should feel guilty, as though it was somehow _his_ fault Arthur left his station.

“I never asked you to do that,” he reminded, yet again, sparking their usual argument.

But Arthur had no fight in him today. He simply sighed and began to cube the peeled vegetables. Francis was dumbfounded to see Arthur not taking his bait. Something serious must be on his mind.

Frowning, Francis didn’t push. He quietly instructed Arthur on how to cook the dish and an hour later, Arthur was pulling the cast-iron pot out of the smoking oven to set it down in the middle of the table. Then he began pouring some stew into large bowls for them, serving Francis—technically the master of the house—first, then himself, then sitting down. The two of them began to eat in silence, sharing bread and butter between them to sop up the thick, savoury broth. There might be enough leftover for their lunches tomorrow, thought Arthur.

“How does it taste?” he asked once their silence had dragged on for too long.

“C’est mangeable,” murmured Francis. Arthur sighed from across the table but didn’t comment. If Francis were honest, the stew was just as flavorless as every other before it, but he sensed that  Arthur was feeling… not himself today.

He wondered if it had to do with his earlier question about being missed .

He wondered why it was that Arthur didn’t feel loved. Francis knew his personal life was an unhappy one, neglected by his parents, but surely there was someone that loved him.

But Francis didn’t want to ask.

Once they’d finished eating, Arthur cleared the table and stored their pot of leftovers in the larder. Francis got up to go sit by the fire, stoking life back into it. When Arthur finished cleaning, he came to sit in his usual spot on the carpet, warming his hands by the fire while his face basked in the orange warmth.

“I imagine you have a few lovers eager to see you return,” mumbled Arthur into the fire.

Francis hummed at that.

“Have any of them come to visit you since you fell ill?”

Francis thought over his answer before saying, “Only one.”

“Oh,” murmured Arthur, somehow sounding crestfallen to Francis. “I’m sure she misses you very much.”

“Why do you think that?” wondered Francis, deliberately ignoring Arthur’s choice of gender when stating this.

“Well, I mean,” he stammered, happy that the heat of the flames hid his blush. “I just think you’re likeable, and y’know, handsome.”

“You like me and think I’m handsome,” teased Francis.

“I think that’s a given,” murmured Arthur. “I don’t kiss just anyone.”

And just like that, they were back to that regrettable night in Arthur’s English manor and his silk bed.

“You don’t have any lady friends waiting for you to come back home to England?” asked Francis.

Arthur stared blankly into the fire. “I thought you knew,” he said, “that I have no interest in women.”

Francis blinked. “You mean to say that you’ve never been with a woman?”

“Nor do I want to be with one,” replied Arthur. “I’ve never been with a man, either, in case you’re wondering.”

“But… at the brothel, in Havana. You were with a woman.”

Arthur shot him a look. “And whose fault was that?” he countered. “It was the first time I’ve ever seen a naked women in the flesh, and I didn’t _do_ anything to or with her.”

“If I’d known you were a virgin, I would’ve used a different strategy,” frowned Francis.

Arthur shrugged. “How’re you feeling? Any better?”

Francis sighed as Arthur returned to his role as his nurse, ending their conversation.

Once it was bedtime, Arthur helped Francis up to his bed. He gave him his spoonful of medicine, a glass of water to wash it down, and helped him into his pyjamas. Only then did Arthur go back downstairs to his own makeshift bed at the bottom of the stairs, curtained off from the rest of the main floor and within perfect sight of the front door in case of intruders.

Arthur only ever sleeps lightly.  But he was still jolted out of rest when he heard a wracking cough coming from upstairs. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he went upstairs to check on Francis, always worried over the worst. He quickly made his way up the stairs. He cautiously walked over to him in the dark, careful not to step on clothes or bump into any furniture.

Francis was still coughing when he reached him. He sat on the edge of his bed and gently felt for him, finding his hands and with a soothing touch, rubbed up his arms to embrace him. Francis didn’t protest against his touch, actually welcoming the brief contact Arthur was offering while his coughing eventually subsided and his breathing returned to normal. It’s become a common occurrence over the past few months for Arthur to come up to his bed like this at odd hours of the night.

“Merci,” he said hoarsely.

“It’s no problem,” said Arthur, just like every time before. But uncharacteristically to every time before, as Arthur rose to head back down, Francis gripped his wrist and held him back. “Stay with me,” he requested softly.

Arthur looked at him thoughtfully, but he didn’t think about it long before complying. Silently, he slid in beside Francis, on top of the covers where the air was still cool with the winter night.

And Francis laid back down, facing Arthur. He let himself drift back to sleep and before long, Arthur could hear gentle snoring. Flustered that that was all Francis seemed to want from him, he also allowed himself to sleep.

But when morning came, peace broke. Arthur woke up stiff and sore from yesterday’s work. He opted for getting out of bed quietly to not wake Francis. Except that the Frenchman was already awake and was watching Arthur sleep. 

Just like he’d done the few times before in Arthur’s manor, before they would eventually kiss, ignite some sort of fire he didn’t know how to put out, and then parted without ever satisfying the cravings they both seemed to have.

Arthur tried so hard to avoid that cycle from starting up again, and yet here they were.

“I… Should probably go start breakfast,” he mumbled, sitting up to get out of bed.

But Francis gripped Arthur’s arm to hold him still.

“Why are you still here?” he asked quietly, voice hoarse from coughing and phlegm.

“Because you told me to stay,” he replied, confused.

“No,” frowned Francis, sitting up. “Why are you still _here_ , taking care of me? You don’t owe me this.”

“Because we’re partners,” answered Arthur, as though that should have been obvious. “Don’t tell me you’ve been sitting on _that_ this whole time. I know we have our differences, but that doesn’t change what you are to me. If you didn’t hate me so much, I might even be able to say we’re friends.”

Francis was taken aback by his blunt statement. “I don’t _hate_ you,” he gasped. “Whatever made you think that?”

“You’ve made it abundantly clear that you don’t want me here,” reminded Arthur. “But regardless, you’re under my protection thanks to the contract you signed, and I intend to fulfill that duty to the fullest. So the sooner you get better, the sooner we can get back to working together.”

“My god, you really are dense,” breathed Francis, deciding to just come out and say it. “The reason why I was pushing you away—as well as everyone else, by the way—is because I know I’m going to die soon. I don’t see a point in making my men worry and suffer along with me, so I suffer alone.” He curled up deeper into the bed as he spoke, the covers acting as a barrier from the judgement he was expecting to get from Arthur now.

Arthur frowned at the bundled blankets that covered the man. “Francis…” he breathed, considering how to address the issue. “Even if they were to suffer, I’m sure they would prefer to be by your side, share last words with you, rather than let you suffer alone.”

Francis groaned, “Don’t you lecture me too.”

“In any case, your health has been improving with the warmer weather,” observed Arthur. “I believe that before the next season comes, you’ll be in sailing shape again.”

“Oh, suddenly you’re a doctor,” grumbled Francis through half-lidded eyes.

“No, but I haven’t caught whatever it is you have,” he reminded. “Whatever it is, it isn’t contagious—not anymore, anyhow. It might have been something you’ve had for a long time and only laid dormant until now. 

“So I have a bear of an illness that’s been hibernating inside me and decided to lay waste for a season before hibernating again?” scoffed Francis. “Your fancy education is rattling in that brain of yours, Kirkland.”

Arthur rolled his eyes at him. “I’ll go cook up some eggs. I’ll bring them up to you with your coffee,” he said, moving to head downstairs to the kitchen. _Clearly_ , Francis was well enough to dress himself this morning.

But if he were honest with himself, he wasn’t sure why he stayed with Francis through this. It’s true that he was tired of seeing comrades dying, but more than that, he didn’t like seeing Francis so low. When he thought of what Francis was like healthy—playful, cocky, flirtatious—it broke Arthur’s heart to see him like this now.

Pushing these thoughts aside, Arthur went downstairs and prepared their breakfast.

Since the night before, Arthur couldn’t help feeling their dynamics shift. He wasn’t sure why it shifted or how it shifted. He only knew that Francis wasn’t nearly as biting with him and was more patient to his fuck ups. Arthur warmed up to Francis in turn.

As winter left way for spring, Arthur had even more yard work to take care of to control the damage caused by the thawing. He had to align sandbags around the foundations of the house so that the cellar wouldn’t get flooded and had to arrange more around the hay barn so that the stock of feed and bedding for the animals wouldn’t get wet and ruined, leaving their animals starving. In the end, he spent most of his time outside which left Francis inside alone to take care of the household chores.

The Frenchman had been feeling well enough that he prepared their meals now and did the laundry. Sometime near March, the two of them just didn’t have any energy left to go up the stairs by the time night fell that Francis’ bed was simply moved to the main floor where Arthur had built his nest and they both cuddled up against the cold in that spot at the end of the day.

With their days blending together peacefully like this, filled with hard work and exhaustion, it was easy for Arthur to forget why he came all the way out to the Canadian countryside. Once or twice he caught himself remembering his father, and consequently, the wayward brother he had been chasing down, but then the smell of fresh baked bread would waft in from the kitchen or Francis would call for him to chop more firewood, among other little distractions that would push Alistair out of Arthur’s mind once again.

Arthur never knew such a simple life before and he found it charming and quaint despite the hard work. Although he missed his wealthy lifestyle, he didn’t see himself missing the ludicrousness of high society that Francis’ lifestyle lacked so starkly.

One thing was certain; he could get used to this.


	23. To Have and to Hold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is. The final chapter of this fic. Next will come the epilogue (which is already written, I just need to finish proofreading it).
> 
> Special thanks to kaffeogte for helping me with beta reading! Also GalacticAesir, my long-standing, reads-literally-everything-I-put-in-front-of-her-no-matter-how-shitty-it-is beta. I love you both <3

By the time spring rolled in, Francis seemed to be almost back to his usual self. He was thinner and gaunter than he used to be, lacking muscle compared to his past years of hard work and a full belly一but that would come back in due time, Arthur was sure of it.

Most of the flooding from the snow was managed and they set Francis’ bed back upstairs. When night fell, he didn’t insist on Arthur sleeping anywhere but by his side. That helped Arthur feel that much more assured of their growing bond. It wasn’t all in his head after all.

Now with two sets of hands, repairing the damage from winter went by much more smoothly and quickly. Morning and night, Arthur took care of the animals while Francis took care of them in the house. They’d reached a harmony and a routine that Arthur never wanted to end.

Then it suddenly ended. On a spring evening, they sat at the thick wooden dinner table near the kitchen when Francis made his announcement.

“I’ll be heading back out to sea by this weekend,” he stated, placing a still smoking dish of savoury lamb chops in the centre of the table.

Arthur froze, letting his settled brain register those words and what they entailed. “Oh…,” he said, letting the single syllable hang in the air between them. He had forgotten that Francis was a privateer—himself his commander in the British Navy.

Normally he would’ve stockpiled contracts for Francis over the winter, but having spent the entire season in New France with him, it had completely slipped his mind.

“I don’t have any contracts for you,” he murmured.

“I didn’t use to live off your contracts,” he reminded gently. “I have plenty of connections and there are still many pirates whose treasures I can plunder. Don’t you worry your scraggly blond head over it.”

Arthur reddened slightly at the implication; Francis didn’t need him anymore. But, he remembered starkly that he still needed the Frenchman, since he still had vital information about Alistair.

He hadn’t thought of his brother in far too long and, now with Francis’ annoncement, it was time he got back on track, too.

“But you still work for me, so I have a request from you,” stated Arthur as Francis sat down across from him.

“If you say so.”

“Find Alistair Kirkland and give me his exact whereabouts. Even better if you can give me a planned trajectory,” said Arthur, leaning forward on the table with his hands clasped together, his composure all business.

Francis scowled at him. “I will _not_ hunt down your brother for you!” he spat at him. “Say his name in this house one more time, and I will end you.”

Arthur startled at how aggressively Francis spoke to him, but he tried to remain calm as he spoke his next words. “If Mathieu knew that you had become a pirate, would he be happy?” he asked carefully. “Do you think your brother would be proud of the man you’ve become?”

Francis flinched at his words. “That has nothing to do with this,” he snapped. “Your brother left because he was tired of being abused and having his needs ignored. I needed to _survive_.”

“That’s not true,” frowned Arthur. “You both became pirates for the same reason: you didn’t want to feel alone一but you’re not alone anymore. I’m offering you a way out. Don’t you think my brother deserves to know he’s not alone either? Doesn’t he deserve a way out too?”

Francis frowned at his words. He felt a sickness in his gut at having his emotions toyed with like this, having his brother used against him to bait him into hunting down the poor Kirkland pirate. With a huff, he picked up his plate and went to eat alone by the fire.

Arthur sighed, eating the rest of his dinner in silence.

He didn’t bother Francis the rest of the night.

After dinner, Arthur went out to take care of the animals just as he’d become accustomed to doing. He quickly bathed in the chilly water from the pump before going back inside to dry by the fire. By nightfall, he was ready to get dressed again and go back to bed, but as he went up the stairs, Francis stood at the landing, leaning against the wall with his shirt-tails hanging out of his pants and his shirt fully unbuttoned. He was clearly in the middle of undressing when he heard Arthur come up the stairs and rushed to block his path.

“You’re not sleeping in my bed,” declared Francis, crossing his arms over his hairy blond chest.

Arthur’s mouth fell open at that. “Why not?”

“Because you’re a manipulative ass,” he stated, waving his hand over his face as though to dispel a sudden awful smell. “Like father, like son. I can’t believe I was so delusioned in my illness that I actually forgot.”

Arthur all but gasped. “I am nothing like him!” he protested. “Really, what will it take for me to prove it to you? I’m not just another pompous snob! I’ve worked my arse off all winter to provide for you, keep you safe, make sure you were fed, bathed, clothed, and after all that, you still think I’m some bastard!”

“It appears that way,” yawned Francis, pointing at the abandoned cot leaning against the wall in the kitchen before going back upstairs. “Try anything fishy and I’m pulling out my rifle. I cleaned it while you were out dancing with the pigs.”

Arthur paled at the threat. With that hanging over his head, he didn’t dare go upstairs. With a heavy sense of defeat, he went to set up the old cot and try to rebuild some semblance of the nest he had before he began to share Francis’ bed every night.

A long night followed. Upstairs, it was quiet, and downstairs, Arthur tossed and turned uncomfortably. He didn’t get a wink of sleep, missing Francis’ warmth by his side, his tender touch of calloused hands rubbing his back and shoulders to help him sleep through the recurring nightmares. Arthur became determined to fix this, no matter the cost.

So when morning came and Francis came down the stairs, of course Arthur was already up. Their breakfast was laid out on the table: eggs, steamed bread, and softened butter. Arthur even pulled out a jar of apple preserve he’d found buried at the back of the pantry which smelled sweet and spicy without a hint of mildew or rot.

Francis eyed the set table suspiciously but he didn’t comment, sitting down to eat after saying his morning prayers. Arthur had already eaten so he let him be, going outside to begin his morning rounds of farming. Francis sighed seeing Arthur clearly distancing himself in a painful display, but he refused to feel guilty for what he’d said or done the night before. He was considering forcing Arthur out of his house today, so that he could prepare for his seafaring in peace.

When Arthur came back inside later in the morning, red-faced with exertion, his shirt in his hands and his chest still glistening from the cold shower he’d given himself at the pump, Francis couldn’t bring himself to tell him.

“You have neighbours coming over,” warned Arthur, going to change out of his farm clothes.

Francis raised a brow and went out to investigate, seeing that his neighbours were indeed on their way over to be nosy.Francis promptly turned them away, assuring them he was healthy. By the time he came back inside, Arthur was already changed into his ordinary clothes and sitting by the fire with a book.

And so despite the shitty night spent without sharing a bed, their day went on exactly as it always had. Arthur kept looking for opportunities to clear the waters with Francis, and consistently failed to come up with a solution they could both be happy with. Francis consistently looked for an opening to ease into kicking Arthur out of his home and failed to muster the courage.

After dinner, Arthur went to tend to the animals again, and when he came in, the kitchen was cleaned from dinner and Francis was nowhere to be seen. Arthur assumed he already retired to his bed upstairs. With a heaviness in his chest, Arthur also changed for bed and blew out the candle before beginning another night of tossing and turning.

He couldn’t take it anymore. It had only been one night, but one night of restlessness was already too much for him. With a sigh, Arthur got out of the cot, lit his candle, pulled on a chemise, and made his way back upstairs, quietly, not wanting to alarm Francis into accidentally shooting him as he promised to do the night before.

He reached the landing and Francis showed no signs of stirring. When he reached the top, Arthur called out meekly, “Francis?” wanting to give the Frenchman plenty of warning to avoid any startled accidents.

“What did I tell you about coming up here?” snapped Francis. In the darkness, Arthur could see him reaching under his bed, and his imagination was already filling in the outline of a rifle.

“I know, but—I decided… that you’re right,” he said, squirming a the top of the stairs, ready to flee if this all went terribly.

“About?” replied Francis, pausing with his hand under the bed frame.

“About Alistair. He doesn’t deserve to be hunted down so I’ll leave it alone,” murmured Arthur, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. He was afraid to look up at Francis, only keeping his eyes wide open in case of the slightest movement from under that bed.

Francis looked at him skeptically, letting go of the weapon to get out of bed. “Why?” he asked. “I don’t believe you would suddenly give up like that after all those years.”

“I’ve decided… that having you in my life is so much more important than reuniting with my brother, especially since I know he doesn’t actually want to be my family…”

Francis tsked, walking over to Arthur as he continued to ramble.

“I decided that I would much rather dedicate myself to my future—our future—than stay stuck in this vengeful cycle that my father started. I’m not my father, and I don’t want to be _anything_ like him.”

Francis circled his arms around Arthur is an embrace, but the Englishman only kept going, a well overflowing with pent up anger, frustration, and vindictiveness.

“I know it’s too much to ask for you to love me back, but I can’t stand the thought of you hating me, especially not over _Alistair_ , so won’t you please let me back into your life? Won’t you let me make up for lost time with you?” pleaded Arthur.

Francis shushed him then; it was getting to a point where he was looking very sad and pathetic and it was ruining the moment for him.

“You need sleep,” he whispered softly, gently guiding Arthur to the bed.Arthur bit his lip, his emotions spiralling down a rabbit hole, but he really did need Francis’ comfort and understanding. He realized that he was giving up on a big part of his life, the prime motivator behind his success, but he truly felt that Francis could be a stronger inspiration for him to succeed.

Francis helped him into bed, tucking him in before getting in under the covers from the other side. He held Arthur to himself, continuing to soothe and calm him.

He had to admit that, for once, he was touched by what Arthur said.

The two bundled up together under the blankets. They were draped in darkness with only Arthur’s meek candle light on the bedside to illuminate them and a cloudy moon through the window. Wind rustled hard enough that the shingles shook on the roof.

It was Arthur that leaned in closest, his hands pressed gently against Francis’ torso. His lips searched his skin, trailing up in chaste little kisses until he found his jaw, soon after his lips. When he finally found the tender skin he’d been looking for, Arthur delved in deeper, lips softly caressing the other’s, his tongue lapping up his upper lip between his teeth. Francis let out a satisfying moan at that, encouraging Arthur to venture deeper.

He pressed his body against the other, letting his hands wander over the soft fur of his chest. Hands tangled into Arthur’s hair, fingers lightly tugging at the blond strands, and Arthur couldn’t help the gasp that escaped him and the heat the bloomed across his cheeks. Francis only took his chance to dip into Arthur’s neck, nibbling on the tender skin where his blood pulsed strongly, making Arthur moan with pleasure. He felt his member throb with need. He squeezed his knee between Francis’ legs, their limbs tangling together. Arthur pressed himself against Francis’ thigh, _needing_ to feel something there before it drove him crazy.

Francis’ breath caught in his throat when he felt Arthur’s full length pressed against him. He slowly rolled on top of him, pinning him against the sheets and the sound that escaped Arthur’s throat nearly drove Francis mad with a flash of lust. His hands deftly wrapped under Arthur, tugging the hem of his chemise up over his head, leaving his pale skin bare in the warm candlelight that was far more flattering than it needed to be.

Surprising them both, Arthur sat up, clumsily fumbling with the buttons of Francis’ pants, and Francis had to stop him, holding both his hands in his own and forcing Arthur to look him in the eye. “Are you sure about this?” he whispered with a stern warning to his voice.

“Yes,” squeaked Arthur, clearing his throat to more clearly say it again. “Yes. I won’t stop us this time,” he promised.

Francis chewed his cheek in thought. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back,” he assured, crawling out of bed and leaving a confused Arthur behind as he went downstairs with the lone lit candle.

Arthur blinked a moment before deciding to pull his pants off, tossing them to the floor and laying nervously under the blankets while he waited for Francis to return. He could hear Francis moving things around downstairs in the kitchen and before long, he was creaking back up the stairs. The candle light reached the landing before he did. Arthur could see that he held the flagon of olive oil they used for cooking.

“Why…?” he asked, just as Francis was setting down the candle and oil before getting back in bed.

“You’ll find out soon,” he promised, sliding off his trousers once he was under the covers. He shimmied in closer to Arthur, cupping his cheek as he started kissing him all over again.

And Arthur melted into it. He was thrumming with nervousness and excitement, scared to cross that line between celibacy and sin, but he wanted to have Francis in his life so badly. He had been wanting to be intimate with him for as long as he could remember. He just didn’t have a name for it until now.

But if Francis would have him, Arthur wanted to be his until the day they died.

“Teach me,” breathed Arthur between their lips. “Teach me how to make you feel good.”

Francis chuckled, his voice rumbling against Arthur’s skin, causing a shiver to run down his spine. “I will, don’t worry,” he promised, trailing kisses down Arthur’s chest.

Arthur descended into mindless ecstasy from that point forward. He had no idea how naive he was about sex and love, and realized exactly how lucky he was to have found a partner as understanding and patient as Francis. The Frenchman’s kisses marked a path down his chest before nuzzling into his groin, teasing his length with his lips and teeth. Arthur had never dared indulge in his urges before so to feel so much tender pleasure in such a short amount of time was almost overwhelming.

He hardly noticed when Francis nudged Arthur’s knees apart, squeezing himself in the opening created. When Francis took his member into his hot, wet mouth, he barely felt Francis also massaging his inner thighs and his most private part of himself. He didn’t feel any need to stifle himself either, the night drowning out his lust and wanton moans.

He let out a startled yelp at Francis’ gentle prodding of his entrance. He gazed up at Arthur, with a glance that awaited permission, and with a deep blush, Arthur nodded his consent.

He didn’t know it would take so long, or that he would be so tight at first. He was nervous and felt embarrassed, as though he could somehow choose to make Francis’ efforts so much more laborious. But Francis was patient and doting, and while he worked Arthur open and loosened him up for himself, he made sure that Arthur felt more pleasure than pain and that he was comfortable and loved until he was finally begging for Francis to take him.

With a gentle kiss to his lower abdomen, Francis straightened up. “You’re sure?” he breathed, disbelieving that they were truly, finally doing this.

“Yes, please,” whimpered Arthur, “I want you.”

With a soft smile, Francis lowered himself on top of Arthur, kissing him tenderly as their bodies moved together. Arthur let out a startled moan which Francis eagerly captured with his lips, hips swaying, skin touching, length plunging in at just the right angle to make Arthur moan like that again and again until the two could not possibly be satisfied any more.

***

When morning light filtered in through the shrouded window, Francis was laying on his side, admiring Arthur just as he’d done almost every morning for a long time. He felt an ache in his chest, remembering what they had done together the night before, how Arthur’s body opened itself so willingly to him.

Now Arthur slept soundly, lying on his stomach with his head buried in the pillow, like every morning before that life-changing night. His back raised in slow, deep breaths; Francis didn’t dare wake him up. He continued to replay the night before in his mind, how Arthur approached him, pleading, confessing a love that couldn’t possibly be easy to admit to himself, let alone to Francis. He showed a willingness to give up everything in order to make Francis happy.

He made Francis’ stomach wring with guilt. Knowing how vulnerable Arthur was regarding his own sexuality, Francis began to question if he was only using Arthur for his own pleasure after all, like he’d done with countless men and women before.At that moment, in the morning sunlight, he was cursing his own promiscuity.

Francis wanted some way to give back to Arthur all the happiness that Arthur had brought him.

So when Arthur began to stir in the later hours, stretching catlike in the bed, letting the covers slide just a little bit lower down his naked body, Francis’ breath caught in his throat. All he could manage was to sneak in little kisses over Arthur’s shoulder and into his neck.

Arthur let out a content purr at the affection, turning on his side to snuggle into Francis. “This feels good,” he murmured into the crook of his neck.

Francis chuckled, the sound rumbling in his chest. “I’ve been thinking about something,” he murmured quietly, pressing tender kisses into his hair.

“Hm?”

“About… what you said yesterday,” he said hesitantly, pulling away to sit up and face Arthur properly, “When you said you love me, did you mean it?”

Arthur gave him a confused look. “Why would I ever lie about that?” he frowned. “Saying something like that out loud whimsically is basically a death sentence. And I’m not an idiot.”

Francis rolled his eyes. “I ask, because I want to know… how do you know it’s love and not something… _whimsical_?” he replied, choosing his words carefully.

Arthur sighed in understanding, sitting up as well. He crossed his legs in front of him and took Francis’ hands in his own. “Because I felt drawn to you since we first met when we were kids,” he said simply. “You’re the only person I’ve felt _any_ attraction to for as long as I can remember.”

Francis bit his lip. “Even though I’m a pirate?”

“Even though you’re a pirate,” he confirmed, giving his hands a squeeze.

Francis let out a deep breath. “Then... I will help you find Alistair,” he decided.

Arthur blinked. “R-really?” he breathed. “But why?” he asked, suspicious that this was some sort of sick trick.

“On the condition that you promise to help your brother get out of piracy instead of condemning him to death,” Francis added sternly, his gaze fixed on their clasped hands. “Because I can see now that if you can accept me as I am then surely you’ll be able to accept Alistair as well.”

Arthur was speechless for a moment, processing this. “Of course I promise,” he said. “That has only ever been what I wanted.”

“Then we have a deal?” breathed Francis, leaning forward to kiss him.

“Deal,” giggled Arthur, his heart swelling with an emotion he only recently learned how to describe.

Together, they tumbled back into bed, limbs tangling as they lost each other in love.


	24. Epilogue: From This Day Forward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the Epilogue of Cruellest Conquests, where Francis’s and Arthur’s story finally ties in with Dead Man’s Prayer. The same scene will act as a conclusion to both parts of this series, but edited for different perspectives.

**Several seasons of secretly fucking later…**

Arthur was still staring in shock at the new commission contract he received. He couldn’t believe his luck. For years, he’d been sending requests to the British Navy to let him hunt down Armado’s crew, and after what happened in the Ottoman Empire with how those idiot pirates attacked the Turkish soldiers and killed one of their most prominent commanders, they finally gave him permission.

He sat at his desk in his cabin, rereading the commission letter over and over again. He was waiting for Francis to show up so they can discuss strategies. He absently drummed his fingers against his mahogany desk where a single candle burnt away and illuminated the paper in front of him, signed by his admiral and stamped by the King of England.

His ship was safely docked in Weymouth, in the southern part of England. The rain outside pelted against the window panes of the Man-O-War as it lulled in the waves. Arthur found it quite soothing. Only the guards on duty were left aboard the ship, but he would have to gather everyone in the morning—assuming his partner ever showed up.

Arthur was just starting to doze off at his desk when he heard footsteps on the deck approaching his cabin. At first he thought the guards were just switching shifts, until he realized the pacing was wrong. Whoever was walking on deck was taking their time and purposely prolonging Arthur’s wait.

It was amazing how easily Francis could infuriate him.

The Frenchman entered Arthur’s cabin in a jovial mood. Arthur waited patiently as Francis hung his long overcoat on a peg by the closed door and took a seat in the wingback chair across from him. Arthur observed him carefully for the first time in weeks.

“Seeing you now, one would never guess you were once just a hunter,” complimented Arthur as he leaned back in his chair.

Francis chuckled. “I’m so glad you noticed. This is the latest fashion amongst the noble class in France,” he said as he gestured to his new outfit.

“Is there any reason why you’re late meeting me?” scowled Arthur.

“I’ve been busy.”

“Are you telling me you’re too busy for a commission job?”

“For you? _Never_ ,” purred Francis.

Arthur grinned and said, “Good.”

He handed the letter to Francis. As he read it, his expression darkened.

Seeing his expression, Arthur sighed. No matter how much time passed or how many times they rehashed this old argument, it still continued to creep up betwen them. “Alistair is the single source of _shame_ in our family. Our father spent good money so he could be highly educated and become a physician and yet he’s wasted his knowledge to become a bloody pirate.”

“I don’t like this, Arthur.”

“You don’t have to like it. You just need to help me hunt them.”

“And how do you intend to do that?” asked Francis, sounding increasingly frustrated.

“I heard their ship was damaged by the Ottomans, so they should be off repairing it by now.”

“And where might that be?”

“Isn’t that your job to figure out?”

“Yes, of course,” said Francis with a wave of his hand. “But tell me this: what will you do when you find your estranged brother? Are you going to save him like you promised?”

“Perhaps I’ll be able to talk some sense into him if I’m firm enough.”

Francis quirked a smile. “I do like it when you’re _firm_.”

“Not now, Francis,” said Arthur sternly.

“Tsk. And what if he won't listen? You still think you can save him?”

“I don’t have a choice. He chose his life and I chose mine.”

Arthur’s expression had become grim, just as it always did when he thought of his brother’s fate. “Oh, Arthur, get your mind off it!”

“And how do you propose I do that?”

Francis gave him a knowing smile. “I know of something that never fails to cheer you up,” he murmured.

Arthur smiled coyly. “Go on.” He stood from his chair.

Francis watched him make his way around the desk. “You need to loosen up first. I won’t help you otherwise.”

“You said you would never be too busy for me,” said Arthur grinning. He sat in Francis’ lap, straddling him.

“I’m beside myself on this.” Francis rubbed up Arthur’s thighs slowly. “On the one hand, I’m not busy right now. On the other hand, you always keep me so busy,” he purred.

Arthur ran one hand through his lover’s long blond hair. “You tell a single soul about us and I will rip your throat out with my bare hands.”

Francis grinned. He knew that although Arthur spoke of violent things that way, he cared too much to actually act on them. “I would never dare taint your family name, Captain Kirkland.”

Arthur leaned down to kiss the Frenchman. “That’s what I like to hear,” he said grinning.

* * *

Arthur’s ship was tossing in the waves of the Strait of Gibraltar as he waited for Francis to come back. He anchored the Man-O-War there, far away from the Spanish coast, not wanting to attract any attention from the Spanish monarchy while his companion hit land, looking for the criminal band. Arthur hated sitting there, waiting after the Frenchman, so he tried to content himself by stalking any frigate that passed through the Strait with his eyeglass, hoping one of them might be Armado’s ship and have an excuse to finally set sail again.

Frustrated at still finding nothing, Arthur put his eyeglass away again and stormed off to his cabin to open a bottle of scotch. He’d put it off long enough, but he was on the verge of giving up on Francis actually bothering to come back. _Bloody Francis_ , he thought to himself, pulling the stopper off the bottle.

“Tomorrow, I set sail, and I’m going to find my bastard brother,” he promised himself. Enough was enough. He couldn’t sit here, vulnerable, like an idiot, waiting on his lover all day. He briefly wondered why he ever agreed to this plan in the first place, until he remembered the point of him standing back was out of caution more than uselessness. He grumbled to himself and reasoned that a week would be a more appropriate amount of time to wait before giving up on his companion. Giving Francis the benefit of the doubt had never proven wrong before.

Arthur’s men knew better than to bother him when he was in one of these moods, drinking and mumbling to himself, so they left him alone for the most part until Francis finally boarded the ship.

As per usual, the Frenchman didn’t bother knocking on his door and walked in to find him already half-drunk on cheap spirits and raving half-mad.

“Pull yourself together, mon ami,” chastised Francis.

“It’s about fucking time you showed up! Do you have any idea how annoying it is waiting after you?” raved Arthur.

“Of course not. I’m a delight. Unlike you, you drunk peddler,” mocked Francis.

Arthur was about to argue about his pristine lineage and how he would never even need to be a peddler unlike his hunter-turned-pirate frog, before Francis cut him off with the meat of their encounter. “I found the city where Armado has docked. His ship has been repaired and is due to set sail in a few days.”

“Oh, finally! A timeline I can work with,” slurred Arthur.

“What do you mean? Aren’t you going to attack them at the harbour?” Francis sat in the wingback chair across from Arthur.

“Don’t be ridiculous. If I attack them at the harbour _now_ , there’s no guarantee I’ll catch them all, and we’ll aggravate the queen. We need another plan.”

“So you want to ambush them at sea.”

“Correct!” Arthur took another swig of scotch.

“Will you be embarking on this alone, or am I expected to choreograph this entire ambush with you?”

“I’m not paying you for nothing,” complained Arthur.

Smirked Francis. “It’s the money I make off your commissions that put bread on the table, after all.”

“What’s the use in getting your own? You already eat all of _my_ bread.”

“Oh, don’t start that with me again!” reproached Francis.

Arthur threw his arms up in mock surrender. “Fine. What do you want?”

“A house in the countryside.”

“Is the house I already have in Canterbury not good enough anymore?”

“It’s in the _English_ countryside. That’s no good. It’s stuffy and cold,” complained Francis.

Arthur sighed, now that he knew where this conversation was going. “Fine. Bordeaux?”

“Good choice,” replied Francis, with a broad smile across his face.

Arthur sighed again, exasperated by his lover’s unquenchable taste. “So how about this,” he said, setting his bottle down on the desk in front of him and kicking his feet up. “We wait until they set sail. We tail them. Once they reach the open sea, we ambush them on either side with our two ships.”

“And I assume we’re not sinking them, but capturing their ship and their crew? Which means no extreme gun power.”

“Correct,” replied Arthur, still slurring. “We ambush them, corner them between our two ships, we get close enough to force ourselves aboard and we capture them.”

“It sounds inelegant, but effective for the intended task.”

“Good,” said Arthur getting up and moving towards the bed. “And it’s bloody late now, no thanks to you. I’m going to bed,” he added, shrugging off his coat.

Francis continued to sit and served himself a glass of scotch as he watched Arthur. The poor Englishman was drunk and bound to pass out before he even hit the hay. By the time Francis finished his glass, scowling at its bitterness for the last time, Arthur was snoring soundly. Francis shrugged off his own coat and boots before finally joining Arthur, pulling the stubborn man to his chest as he slept undisturbed.

* * *

Arthur couldn’t contain himself anymore. He was brimming with excitement and some sense of victory already; the one thing that kept him going all his life was finally within reach, _finally_ within sight, and he had to sit and wait for the best time to strike if he wanted to be successful. Too many years and too much pain went into this venture—he wasn’t about to let it end before he’s had a chance to relish it.

It wasn’t particularly foggy today, but foggy enough. Their strategy needed timing and planning. Arthur’s vessel was supposed to approach from behind, while Francis’s ship—unmarked—would approach from the front. They intended to get close enough to flank them on either side. If Arthur shot from behind, it would confuse the crew enough to give Francis a chance to corner them before the English could get close enough to board their ship.

Their timing had to be perfect, or they might escape, or worse, sink with Alistair still aboard the ship. Arthur was not about to let this precious opportunity go to waste.

Francis had one of his own look-outs standing in Arthur’s crow’s nest. Arthur only had to wait for the Frenchman’s signal before he could fire. His cannons were already loaded, waiting with heavy groans to release their iron onto the criminals. The Spanish ship was barely visible in the distance, only thanks to the lanterns they lit to see their way aboard their own vessel. Arthur and Francis had their own extinguished to mask their presence. Their lookouts would exchange signals using their lanterns in their crow’s nests. Even if the pirates caught their signal, they wouldn’t be able to react quickly enough to avoid Arthur’s firepower.

“Allez!” called the man on the mast, and Arthur hardly gave it a second thought when he called, “Fire!” and the ship rocked with a single cannon fire.

In the distance, he heard the thunderous roar of a cannonball splitting through wood, and he knew he had hit the _Madreperla._ Now they needed to approach her, flank her side so that they can board and invade her.

His excitement was fuelled with adrenaline. Nothing could possibly stop him now.

Through the fog, he could just make out Francis’ warship flanking the Spanish vessel and redcoats already beginning to bloody her deck. His ship finally rounded to block the _Madreperla_ ’s path, cutting across her front. By the time her prow could dent his flank, his men were already pulling ropes and planks to jump aboard the enemy ship and conquer.

Another cannon fired as Francis also sent a warning shot to the enemy, his cannon piercing straight through her side only to sink far into the waters.

Their men were doing exactly as they’d been ordered to do: pirates were being rounded up around the centre mast with only a handful of bodies sprawled along the deck, their lives emptying out in pools of red to match the coats of their invaders. Arthur almost laughed when he saw a pirate, filled with gusto and foolish bravery, left the safety of their imprisonment and charged at an English officer, only to be shot down and to have his blood and brains mingle with his fallen brethren. The others fell silent, letting the single gunshot ring in the foggy air.

The only sound to be heard was the creaking and groaning of floorboards as the ship struggled to maintain her impressive stature with the holes in her flanks and the extra bodies on her deck. Then Arthur’s footsteps joined the symphony, slow and measured. He saw Francis standing proudly by the stern with a few of his own men, holding two particular men captive, hands bound behind their backs and kneeling at the Frenchman’s feet. One of them Arthur recognized to be the negro pirate, but the other was unmistakable with his head of fiery red hair and their mother’s alabaster skin. Arthur felt his heart stop beating a moment recognizing his brother and a smirk twisted the corners of his mouth. He finally did it. He finally won.

Arthur approached the men—his lover and brother—and as he walked, everything he had ever pent up, everything he had ever wanted to say to his _stupid_ brother rose up in his chest, bubbling with anger and sharpening his tongue.

"You stupid pig, Arthur! Father always said you were up to no good!"

Now that was too much for Arthur. His composure broke apart.

“I was up to no good?!” He spat, his anger and disgust turning into an ugly fury he couldn’t contain anymore. “You're the bloody fucking pirate here!"

"Pirate, privateer, same bloody difference,” scoffed Alistair, nodding his head to Francis and shooting a look at Arthur that he knew everything. _Everything._

Panic swelled in Arthur’s chest. Of all the people that could ruin him, to accuse him of something sinful, he never thought it could be Alistair.

“I will skin you and deliver your head to your mother!” he seethed.

“ _How dare you speak of our dead mother like that!?”_

“I’ll drink wine out of your skull!”

“ _I’ll drink rotgut out of yours so it could taste just like your soul, you slimy son of a bitch!”_

Francis was frowning at their exchange. When he finally had enough, he stepped closer, leaning in to whisper carefully into Arthur’s ear. “Remember why we’re here.” His tone was a barely audible hiss.

Arthur grit his teeth. From the look on Alistair’s face, he had heard too, and now his brows were knitting together to piece together what it meant. His lips were twisted in a snarl, ready to bite Arthur if he came too close. Arthur raised his head, and with his hands casually clasped behind his back, he spun around to face the rest of the crew. His eyes scanned the assembly in front of him, searching their faces for surprise attacks and rebellions.

“Listen, you stupid pieces of shit,” snarled Arthur. “We know the bloody lot of you are pirates, and every single one of you will atone for your crimes one way or another. If you behave, you’ll be brought to the Bahamas and hung as examples. It’s quite merciful. You might even enjoy it, knowing how sadistic you all are.” Then he paused to pace across the stern. “If you don’t, you’ll meet a worse fate. Are we clear?”

He paused, obviously waiting for a reply and staring each of them down with an icy glare. The pause seemed to take forever, until a man somewhere at the other end of their circle spoke up.

“What happens if we don’t listen?” he asked maliciously.

Then Arthur smirked at the assembly, and strode over slowly to where Alistair and his kidnapper from years ago were bound before the wheel. He pulled a flintlock out from under his coat and shot his load into Armado’s chest, peppering him with holes that started spewing blood, staining Alistair’s pale face which now froze with stunned shock.

What happened after Armado was shot down happened like a blur. All the pirates burst into outraged action immediately, fighting the Redcoats to death, knowing that if they didn’t die here, they would only get to die elsewhere in the most humiliating way possible. They had nothing to lose, so they all fought fiercely for their lives.

Arthur gripped his brother’s arm tightly, not caring if it hurt. He owed him a little bit of pain, especially if he was going to be spared death row, unlike his pirate buddies. While Francis flanked him, shooting and cutting down oncoming attackers, Arthur dragged his older brother off to his ship. Once aboard, he called for his navigator to set sail and for the lookout to signal Francis’s ship to finally release his hail of cannon-fire onto the Spanish war vessel. Arthur’s soldiers fled to their vessel, shooting and cutting down pursuers, but many of them fell along the way.

When Arthur’s Man-O-War was far enough away, he also fired his cannons, tearing the _Madreperla_ apart as they slowly circled it in the fog. The enemy shot back, but their cannons merely grazed their sides. Superficial wounds. From a safe distance, they watched as the two-decker fell apart and sank into the cold, dark depths. Her shrieks barely covered the sounds of her occupants’ dying screams. Flaming scraps were all that were left of her when he and Francis finally sailed away.

Alistair stared as his friends and family burnt and drowned in the blaze. His face contorted into an ugly despair as he began to sob with grief. He fell to his knees on the English deck, soldiers rushing around him as they manned the massive masts.

Arthur could hardly take the time to enjoy his victory. Hearing his brother’s wailing was tearing him in half: fury at his brother’s long absence, loving these murderers more than his own flesh and blood; sorrow that he was the cause of his brother’s current state.

He felt a warm hand settle on his shoulder. Arthur looked up to see Francis’s understanding frown. The Frenchman nodded towards Alistair, silently pleading Arthur to start showing him the mercy he had promised him.

Arthur sighed. “Alistair,” he called gently.

But his brother ignored him, sobbing where he knelt, his gaze lost at a sea that still blazed orange.

“Alistair,” he called more insistently. “Ally, please, come with me.”

Alistair looked up at the nickname, completely foreign on his brother’s lips. It was the only reason he deemed to look up at his brother. His gaze was misty with tears and his gaze fell blankly on Arthur, unseeing.

Arthur knelt beside his brother. He placed a heavy hand on his shoulder to pull him to himself. Glancing around to make sure no one was listening, Arthur leaned in close to whisper into his ear. “I’m going to save you,” he revealed to him. “But for my plan to work, I need you to cooperate with me.”

Alistair finally looked at his brother properly then. His eyes gave away his complete disbelief. But he had already lost everything that he ever cared about. All he had left was vengeance. In that moment, glancing back at the tainted fog, Alistair came to a decision, and leaned into his brother’s foreign embrace.

He was going to have to get closer to his brother before he could have a chance of killing him.

**Author's Note:**

> I really do love the feedback and support you give me. If you've read this far, don't forget to leave comments and kudos!


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